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Yours  truly,  JAMES  WILLIAMS 


SEVENTY-FIVE  YEARS 
ON  THE  BORDER 


By  JAMES  WILLIAMS 


KANSAS  CITY: 

Press  of  Standard  Printing  Co. 

1912 


4* 


PREFACE. 


In  presenting  this  little  work  to  the  public,  I  lay 
no  claim  to  literary  merit  from  a  scholarly  point  of  view, 
as  that  would  be  a  travesty  on  the  good  sense  of  the 
higher  education  of  the  present  time.  However,  I  wa9 
born  in  Central  Missouri,  and  have  lived  on  its  western 
border  for  seventy-six  years,  and  have  seen  the  things 
I  tell  about  in  my  native  Missouri  way  of  telling  it,  and 
believe  it  will  be  as  interesting  to  the  many  as  though 
it  were  told  in  nicely  rounded  periods  of  classical  Eng- 
lish. 

Be  that  as  it  may,  I  trust  that  some  one  of  these 

•  WW  '•  •         ...... 

many  stories  may  strTJke.ja  re*&p><3rfslVe  Chord  in  the  breast 
of  the  young,  the  pl&:  the  .matron,  the  maid,  the  grand- 
father,  the  baby  •boy,*  to  ttie  edd.  Ctnal  -my  name  shall 
go  down  to  posterity  as  having  done  my  part  in  blazing 
the  way  for  our  grand  Civilization. 

Midway  Place,  Cameron,  Missouri, 
February  16th,  1912. 

JAMES   WILLIAMS. 


CHAPTER  I. 


*  •  •  ■» 


MY  PARENTAGE. 

I  trust  my  readers  will  not  think  me  egotistical  if 
I  first  mention  my  parentage,  also  a  short  sketch  of  my 
life  work  of  70  years  at  Midway  Place,  where  I  now 
live. 

My  father,  Luke  Williams,  and  my  mother,  Louisa 
Beatty,  were  natives  of  Kentucky  and  came  to  Mis- 
souri early  in  the  19th  century.  They  were  married  in 
Cooper  County,  at  Boonville,  Mo.  They  moved  to 
Van  Buren  County,  now  Cass  County,  Mo.,  to  where 
my  first  memory  goes  back — and  removed  to  "Midway 
Place"  April  30th,  1842,  which  I  have  ever  since  called 
my  home. 

Luke  Williams  is  a  family  name  reaching  back  as 
far  as  we  can  trace  our  family — and  the  Baptist  re- 
ligious faith  is  a  heritage  we  claim  to  trace  to  the  his- 
toric "Roger  Williams."  We  claim  to  be  lineal  descend- 
ants of  Roger  Williams.  My  father  was  a  hard  working 
farmer,  but  found  time  to  preach  of  the  faith  that  was 
in  him  on  Saturdays  and  Sundays,  riding  horseback 
frequently  twenty-five  miles  home  after  services  on 
Sunday. 

He  fought  the  good  fight  and  kept  the  faith,  and 
has  the  promise  in  the  Good  Book  of  a  great  reward. 
He  departed  from  us  at  the  age  of  38  years,  on  Nov. 
2nd,  1848,  leaving  us  in  the  wilderness  in  a  double  log 
cabin,  two  brothers,  two  sisters,  and  a  weakly  mother, 
with  little  to  live  on  after  the  doctor  bills  and  burial 
expenses  were  paid. 

See  Chapter  on  going  to  mill. 


M93556 


SEVENTY- FIVE    YEARS    ON    THE    BORDER 

Language  fails  me  to  describe  the  privations,  the 
suffering,  the  cheerless  gloom  of  that  long  terrible  win- 
ter of  '48  and  '49.  Chilblains,  corns  and  bunions  are 
yet  painful  reminders  of  it.  I  yet  had  a  good,  coura- 
geous mother  and  an  overruling  Providence  decree  that 
I  sbo-ild  live  to  tell  the  painful  story  to  my  grand- 
children, 63  years  afterward. 

In  the  rext  chapter  I  will  take  up  the  thread  of  my 
ovn  life  mentioning  frequently  that  good  mother,  who 
laid  the  foundation  of  honesty,  probity  and  fair  dealings 
with  my  fellow  men,  which  has  served  me  so  well 
through  my   long  business  career. 


CHAPTER   2. 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OF  JAMES  WILLIAMS. 

Taking  up  the  thread  of  my  life  after  my  father's 
death,  that  brother  Alex  and  I  did  not  go  to  the  bad  (as 
nearly  all  of  our  surroundings  were  calculated  to  lead 
in  that  direction),  I  attribute  to  a  good  pious  mother, 
and  an  overruling  Providence.  "There  is  a  divinity 
that  shapes  our  ends,  rough  hew  them  as  we  will." 

For  a  time  I  thought  the  backwoods  cabin  shin- 
dig, hoe-down  dance  was  just  the  place  for  a  young 
man  to  have  a  good  time,  but  I  soon  found  that  the 
young  men  who  attended  those  midnight  revelries 
seldom  had  any  money  and  frequently  had  a  bottle  of 
whiskey,  and  usually  were  exceedingly  popular  with  the 
class  of  girls  who  attend  those  dances.  Guess  I  was; 
envious.  So,  in  the  early  stage  of  the  game,  I  decided 
that  was  not  the  kind  of  company  I  wanted  to  be 
found  in  by  decent,  respectable  people,  and  I  got  out 
of  that  crowd,  and  stayed  out. 

Those  who  lived  here  sixty  or  more  years  ago,  will 
remember  what  a  struggle  it  took  to  make  ends  meet 
at  the  end  of  the  year.     I've  seen  the  time  when  eggs 


MY  MOTHER 


SEVENTY-FIVE   YEARS   ON    THE    BORDER 

went  begging  at  3  cents  per  dozen.  I  have  carried 
them  in  baskets  to  Plattsburg  or  horseback  at  from  5 
cents  to  7  cents.  I  was  a  grown  man  before  I  ever 
had  a  suit  of  store  clothes.  All  were  home  spun,  woven 
and  tailored,  and  the  girls  wore  hoop  skirts  as  large 
at  the  bottom  hem  as  a  good,  big  umbrella,  (no  hobble 
skirts  then) ;  grape  vines  were  used  before  steel  hoops 
got  here.  However,  their  cheeks  were  as  rosy,  their 
hearts  as  good,  and  their  love  as  constant  then  as  in  this 
age  of  hats  as  big  as  their  dress  skirts  were  then. 

The  means  of  getting  an  education  sixty  years  ago 
were  very  meager.  The  log  hut  with  split  puncheon 
floor,  with  cracks  so  big  that  the  boys,  and  girls,  too, 
frequently  fell  through  and  hurt  their  legs  in  going 
to  recite.  It  is  funny  to  tell  about  now,  but  not  so 
funny  to  the  boy  or  girl  who  went  through  the  floor. 
The  others  always  laughed. 

And  this  was  the  only  kind  of  a  school  house  I  ever 
attended.  In  fact,  I  graduated  in  just  the  kind  of  build- 
ing described,  not  more  than  four  miles  from  Cameron. 
The  teacher,  however,  neglected  to  give  us  our  diplo- 
mas. Permit  me  to  pay  a  tribute  to  that  splendid 
young  man,  the  teacher,  Mr.  John  S.  Wells.  He  could 
pronounce  and  spell  every  word  in  Webster's  elemen- 
tary spelling  book,  without  missing  a  word.  The  poor 
fellow  met  a  tragic  death  shortly  after  at  Warsaw,  Mo. 

John  S.  Wells  went  to  Warsaw,  Mo.,  in  an  early 
day  and  started  a  surveyor's  and  land  agency,  fell  in 
love  with  a  nice  lady.  They  went  out  driving  on  a  rough 
road;  their  horse  got  frightened,  ran  away  with  them, 
throwing  the  lady  out  of  the  buggy.  The  lines  wrapped 
around  his  feet,  or  legs,  dragging  him  to  death.  I  give 
this  as  I  heard  the  story  afterward. 

I  was  born  at  Boonville,  Missouri,  May  16th,  1834. 

In  the  old  Webster  Elementary  Spelling-book,  on 
the  front  leaf  was  the  picture  -of  a  man  climbing  a 
rugged  cliff  on  which  stood  the  "Temple  of  Fame." 
I  have  been  clambering  up  that  rugged  height  for  more 
than  seventy  years  but  I  have  not  yet  reached  the  goal. 


SEVENTY. FIVE    YEARS    ON    THE    BORDER 

T  — — — —~— — 

As  I  get  nearer,  it  seems  to  get  higher,  and  more  diffi- 
cult to  gain  its  giddy  summit. 

As  to  my  business  career,  I  was  among  the  first  to 
ship  live  stock,  and  I  know  I  was  the  first  man  who 
shipped  grain  to  St.  Louis  from  Cameron  in  a  commer- 
cial way.  Grain  at  that  time  had  to  be  sacked  and  re- 
shipped  at  Hannibal  by  steamer  for  St.  Louis.  I  shipped 
thousands  of  sacks  that  way  during  war  time.  There 
were  no  bridges  then  spanning  the  Mississippi  or  Mis- 
souri rivers,  save  one  at  Clinton,  Iowa. 

There  were  no  banking  facilities  nearer  than  St. 
Joseph,  where  a  strong  military  force  was  usually  kept. 
All  the  interior  banks  had  s«nt  their  specie  either  to 
large  cities  or  to  Canada,  for  safe  keeping.  Gold  and 
silver  were  bought  like  any  other  commodity.  Green 
backs  were  the  circulating  medium  until  the  organi- 
zation of  National  Banks  based  on  the  credit  of  the 
government. 

At  one  time  it  took  $2.85  in  currency  to  equal  $1.00 
in  gold,  hence  the  apparent  high  prices  of  property. 
Gold  dropped  in  Wall  street  immediately  after  Gen- 
eral Lee's  surrender,  from  about  $2.00  to  50  cents  pre- 
mium which  caused  the  so-called  "Black  Friday"  panic, 
when  Jay  Gould  laid  the  foundation  for  his  great  for- 
tune. 

In  all  the  considerable  business  I  did  in  Cameron 
and  surrounding  country,  not  a  half  dozen  checks  were 
passed.  We  carried  the  currency  (thousands  of  dol- 
lars) in  our  pockets,  and  paid  on  or  before  demand,  and 
my  credit  then  was  as  good  as  now. 

I  shipped  the  first  carload  of  salt  in  barrels  to  Came- 
ron, from  Chicago.  All  our  salt  formerly  came  in  sacks 
from  the  Kanawa  Salt  Works,  in  West  Virginia.  I  sold 
the  salt  at  $5.00  per  barrel,  as  fast  as  I  could  roll  it  to  the 
car  door.  I  charged  little  profit,  as  most  of  my  custom- 
ers had  generously  sold  me  their  cattle,  hogs,  etc.,  on 
credit  until  I  shipped  them.  When  I  returned  no  grass 
grew  under  my  feet  until  they  were  paid  for. 


SEVENTY-FIVE    YEARS    ON    THE    BORDER 

Many  is  the  time  I've  got  off  the  rear  end  of  the 
train  and  slipped  around  the  stock  lots,  (which  were 
then  located  where  the  big  Standard  Oil  tanks  now 
stand),  and  footed  it  home  with  several  thousand  dol- 
lars in  my  pockets,  and  cocked  revolver  in  each  hand, 
ready  for  instant  action.  The  truth  is,  I  was  about  as 
suspicious  of  some  of  the  loafing  militia  soldiers,  as  I 
was  of  the  Confederates  or  their  sympathizers,  hence  I 
carefully  dodged  all  of  them. 

I  can  truthfully  say  of  Confederate  sympathizers 
(and  their  name  was  legion),  that  I  found  them  as  up- 
right, straight  and  fair  men  to  deal  with  as  I  have  ever 
met  in  my  long  business  career.  I  have  many  times 
confided  to  Watt  Matthis  thousands  of  dollars  for  safe 
keeping,  and  no  one  accused  Watt  of  being  a  very  loud 
Union  man.  Watt,  at  that  time,  was  not  the  man  to 
betray  confidence  placed  in  him  by  a  friend. 

Before  closing  this  short  abstract  of  my  early  busi- 
ness ventures,  I  want  to  say  to  the  young  men  of  today, 
that  I  never  could  haye  made  even  the  partial  success 
which  crowned  my  early  efforts,  had  I  not  rigidly  kept 
my  promises.  Stern  integrity,  energetic  industry  and 
promptness  are  yet  the  keys  to  success. 

It  will  hardly  interest  my  readers  to  follow  up  my 
career  since  "war  time,"  as  that  is  too  well  known  by 
many  now  living.  I  might  add  I  took  mother's  advice 
and  bought  all  the  land  I  could  pay  for,  and  my  real 
estate  deals,  or  some  of  them,  have  paid  handsomely. 
Real  estate  is  the  "Gibraltar"  of  business  credit. 

I  wish  to  tender  thanks  to  my  many  friends  for 
their  unbounded  confidence  in  past  years  in  my  integrity 
of  purpose.  JAMES  WILLIAMS, 

Midway  Place. 

CHAPTER  3. 


MY    FIRST    LOVE    AFFAIR. 
I  think  my  many  young  friends  and  readers  will 
relish  reading  the  sketches  of  my  early  manhood  if  I 


SEVENTY. FIVE    YEARS    ON    THE    BORDER 

inject  a  little  romance  and  tell  them  of  my  first  love 
affair,  at  least  I  thought  it  a  love  affair,  but  doubt 
if  the  girl  did.  She  was  a  nice,  modest,  retiring,  well 
beloved  young  lady,  with  dark  eyelashes  and  raven  hair, 
and  with  a  contour  of  personal  charms,  that  any  young 
man  need  not  be  ashamed  of  falling  in  love  with. 

Now,  I  was  not  so  desperately  in  love  with  her,  but 
hoped  that  some  day  my  fortune  would  be  so  improved 
that  I  would  have  a  basis  on  which  to  present  my  suit 
to  her.  Alas!  I  found  early  in  life  that  there  is  "many 
a  slip  between  the  cup  and  the  lip." 

Busy  tattlers  and  news  mongers  carried  stories  to 
me  (which  I  found  afterwards  to  be  all  made  up)  that 
her  parents  made  all  sorts  of  fun  at  my  expense.  I 
should  have  known  better  for  I  was  never  treated  better 
or  received  in  any  home  with  more  apparent  cordial 
friendship  and  esteem  than  I  was  by  the  parents  of 
this  estimable  young  lady.  However,  she  was— as  I 
myself  was — too  bashful  to  be  very  gushing. 

They  were  a  family  who  settled  \y2  miles  east  of 
Turney,  about  the  year  1849  or  1850.  They  came 
from  Maryland,  and  inherited  the  aristocratic  tenden- 
cies of  the  better  class  of  people  of  Lord  Baltimore's 
province,  whether  Puritan  or  Cavalier.  The  mother  was 
a  pious,  devoted  Catholic,  and,  I  believe,  as  sincere  a 
Christian  woman  as  it  was  ever  my  good  fortune  to 
become  acquainted  with.  I  shall  never  forget  the  good 
advice  I  received  from  her  and  her  worthy  husband.  I, 
at  that  time,  was  quite  poor  and  I  felt  deeply  nettled 
at  the  stories  that  came  to  me;  and,  at  the  time  be- 
lieved, they  would  snub  me  if  I  ever  should  presume 
to  visit  them  again.  The  old  lady  was  sick  at  the  time 
this  occurred.  They  sold  their  farm  and  moved  to 
Plattsburg  and  I  never  saw  her  any  more.  She  died 
shortly  after. 

When  war  was  waging  its  wide  desolation,  Captain 
Turney  of  Plattsburg,  was  shot  down  while  at  the  head 
of  his  company,  gallantly  defending  the  town,  attacked 
by  a  struggling  band  of  confederates,  said  to  have  been 


SEVENTY-FIVE    YEARS    ON    THE    BORDER 

commanded  by  Thrailkill.  The  whole  community  was 
up  in  arms  pursuing  this  band  which  had  shot  a  militia- 
man near  Turney.  The  battalion  that  I  was  with  stopped 
at  Plattsburg  for  dinner  and  in  the  street  I  met  the 
father  of  my  erstwhile  sweetheart.  (This  was  some 
years  after  he  had  left  here.)  He  held  out  his  hand, 
greeting  me  cordially,  and  took  me  to  his  home  for 
dinner,  together  with  many  other  hungry  soldiers,  and 
the  dark  haired  lady  and  her  sister  were  working  like 
Trojans,  cooking  and  waiting  on  hungry  men.  This 
was  the  last  time  I  ever  saw  any  member  of  this  good 
family. 

I  might  add  that  both  of  these  girls  married  in 
Plattsburg.  The  elder  one  I  will  call  Julia.  The  fair 
haired  one,  Harriet,  married  a  man  who  had  some  diffi- 
culty with  a  man  in  a  billiard  hall  and  finally  shot  at 
the  man  missing  him,  but  killing  a  bystander.  He  was 
tried  for  murder  and  sent  to  the  state  prison  for  a  term 
of  years,  but  was  paroled  or  pardoned  for  good  behavior 
and  came  back  to  his  heart-broken  wife  and  family, 
probably  a  better  man.  I  need  not  tell  the  few  old  peo- 
ple near  Turney,  the  name  of  this  good  family,  they 
already  have  guessed.  The  name  was  Lloyd  Wells,  and 
the  girls  were  sisters  of  John  S.  Wells,  mentioned  as  the 
best  speller  in  the  state  of  Missouri. 

Now  that  my  grizzled  hair  is  almost  white  as  snow, 
this  incident  comes  to  me  like  some  irridescent  dream 
of  youth  and  this  heart  of  mine  will  never  forget  the 
pleasant  hours  spent  at  the  hospitable  home  of  Lloyd 
Wells.  JAMES  WILLIAMS. 


CHAPTER  4. 


A  LITTLE  WAR  TIME  LOVE  AFFAIR. 


While  relating  my  early  love  "escapades"  I  had  as 
well  finish  that  particular  phase  of  my  early  manhood. 
That  I  did  not  marry  earlier  in  life,  I  attribute  to  several 
reasons. 


SEVENTY-FIVE    YEARS    ON    THE    BORDER 

To  begin,  I  was  handicapped  with  poverty,  and  a 
weakly  mother  and  two  sisters.  Being  the  oldest  of  the 
family,  I  felt  in  duty  bound  to  stay  with  and  help  them 
as  much  as  I  could,  and  I  have  never  regretted  that  I 
did  so. 

I  took  Mother  Wells'  advice  and  set  my  goal  so 
high  that  to  this  day  I  have  not  been  able  to  quite  reach 
it ;  try  as  I  will.  I  will  say  this  much,  if  I  ever  made  any 
advances  to  a  young  lady  you  can  rest  assured  I  thought 
she  was  among  the  best  in  the  land. 

I  was  not  calculated  to  impress  the  girls  much  with 
my  beauty  of  person.  A  great  uncouth,  bronzed,  big  foot- 
ed, unpolished,  back  woods  youth,  who  studied  more  how 
to  get  together  some  of  this  world's  goods  and  store  up  a 
little  useful  knowledge,  than  to  learn  how  to  say  those 
soft  nothings  that  most  girls  like  so  well  to  have  whisper- 
ed in  their  ear.  So  it  will  be  seen  that  I  was  in  no  sense 
a  "Ladies'  Man." 

I  here  give  only  one  little  romantic  episode  of  my 
love  experience  in  war  time.  Old  soldiers  will  remember 
that  we  did  not  stand  and  wait  for  a  formal  introduction 
to  a  young  lady. 

As  I  have  said  before,  I  shipped  considerable  stock, 
grain,  etc.,  in  war  time.  This  incident,  or  love  escapade, 
happened  on  a  Hannibal  &  St.  Joseph  train  about  fifty 
miles  west  of  Hannibal,  bound  west.  The  train  that  day 
had  one  Platte  County,  (now  part  of  the  K  .C.  &  Council 
Bluffs  division  of  the  Burlington  system,)  new  passenger 
car  and  about  four  freight  cars  loaded  with  barreled  pork 
for  the  soldiers  at  Leavenworth;  we  didn't  have  any  big 
packing  houses  in  the  West  at  that  time. 

The  Confederate  bushwhackers  had  sawed  the  cross 
ties  on  a  high  embankment.  The  rails  spread  when  the 
engine  struck  the  weakened  track,  and  the  engine  left 
the  track,  but  did  not  roll  down  the  embankment,  but 
the  4  cars  of  pork  did,  many  of  the  barrels  going  through 
the  side  of  the  car,  and  rolling  out  on  the  edge  of  the 
right  of  way.     The  bushwhackers  fired  on  the  engineers 

10 


SEVENTY-FIVE    YEARS    ON    THE    BORDER 

and  firemen,  who  were  protected  with  thick  sheet  iron 
lining  to  the  cab,  and  none  were  seriously  hurt. 

During  the  several  hours  detention,  I  noticed  an 
elderly  gentleman  and  lady  with  two  young  ladies,  whom 
I  took  to  be  their  daughters.  The  mother  and  one  of 
the  girls  had  red — no,  auburn  hair;  the  other  had  raven 
black  hair,  eye  lashes,  brows  and  rosy  cheeks  which 
would  put  a  ripe  peach  in  the  background.  This  fair 
brunette  had  a  memorandum  book  and  gold  looking 
pencil  (one  of  those  nice  little  telescope  affairs  so  popu- 
lar with  literary  young  ladies  of  that  period).  While 
the  railroad  people  were  repairing  the  track  and  getting 
the  engine  back  on  it,  she  appeared  to  be  taking  notes  of 
what  was  going  on,  and  I  had  nothing  else  to  do  but  to 
fall  in  love  with  her.  Somehow,  young  men,  especially 
those  who  had  seen  a  little  military  service,  naturally 
fell  in  love  with  a  pretty  girl ;  they  had  to  have  a  sweet- 
heart, and  most  of  the  girls  kind  o'  intimated  they  rather 
liked  to  have  sweethearts,  as  well.  In  this  case,  I'd 
have  given  a  five  cent  green  back  shinplaster's  worth  of 
chewing  gum  (if  I'd  had  it)  to  have  known  how  to  ap- 
proach this  fair  lady.  It  couldn't  be  done,  father  mother, 
sister,  all  there,  I,  a  total  stranger  in  a  strange  and  hos- 
tile land. 

The  day  ran  wearily  on.  Along  late  in  the  evening, 
"toot,  toot"  came  from  the  engine  and  the  train  was 
soon  in  motion.  The  worst  freight  train  nowadays  fur- 
nishes better  transportation  than  passenger  trains  did 
then.  The  night  dragged  along.  Brookfield,  Chilli- 
cothe,  Hamilton,  were  called.  Meantime,  I  was  grow- 
ing desperate;  didn't  take  much  then  to  make  a  young 
man  grow  desperate  when  a  pretty  girl  was  in  sight. 
Something  had  to  be  done  quickly.  Both  the  girls  were 
dozing  in  one  seat  in  the  crowded  car,  and  I  had  noticed 
they  had  put  their  skirts,  or  some  toggery,  on  the  shelf 
overhead  and  a  little  in  front  of  them.     An  idea  struck 


SEVENTY-FIVE    YEARS    ON    THE    BORDER 

me.     Taking  a  leaf  from  a  memorandum  book.     I  wrote 
as  follows: 

"James  Williams,  a  single  man  of  Cameron, 
Mo.,  was  on  the  train  when  the  bushwhackers 
tried  to  wreck  it  west  of  Palmyra,  Mo.  Would 
like,  if  agreeable,  to  correspond,  etc." 

I  put  this  little  billet  doux  in  an  open  pocket  in  that 
skirt  overhead,  and  trusted  to  woman's  curiosity  to  do 
the  rest ;  it  did  it.  In  a  few  days  a  little  note  in  a  dainty 
envelope,  in  beautiful  handwriting,  addressed  "James 
Williams,  Cameron,  Mo.,"  came  to  hand.  The  funny 
part  was,  I'd  gotten  the  little  billet  doux  in  the  red  headed 
girl's  pocket,  but  I'd  guarded  against  such  a  calamity  by 
saying  it  was  the  girl  who  was  taking  notes  that  I 
wanted  to  know  more  about.  She  very  coyly  tried  to 
find  out  how  I  got  that  missive  in  that  pocket.  She 
never  found  out  from  me. 

I  was  elated  with  my  success  so  far.  She  told  me 
in  that  letter  she  was  a  Pennsylvania  "school  marm"  on 
the  way  to  Emporia,  Kas.,  with  her  parents.  A  nice 
little  correspondence  sprung  up  between  us,  in  which  I 
talked  about  the  war,  cattle,  hogs,  etc.  I  doubt  if  she, 
at  that  time,  knew  a  hog  from  a  steer.  However,  she 
had  a  good  prospect  ahead  to  get  information  along  these 
lines.  I  rashly  promised  to  go  to  Emporia  to  show  her 
my  beauty  and  polished  manners,  not  taking  into  con- 
sideration there  was  no  great  deal  of  love  for  Missourians 
in  Kansas  at  that  time,  and  that  trip  would  have  to  be 
made  on  horseback,  nearly  200  miles.  The  more  I  con- 
templated the  trip,  the  more  my  ardor,  or  love,  cooled 
down.  The  correspondence  slackened  on  her  part;  at 
least,  I  think  I  hastened  it  by  sending  an  awfully  poor 
daguerreotype  picture  of  James  Williams  postmarked 
Cameron,  Mo. 

She  acted  wisely  by  marrying  a  Judge  somebody, 
an  old  widower,  as  I  learned  many  years  after. 


SEVENTY-FIVE   YEARS    ON    THE    BORDER 


CHAPTER  5. 


MY  MARRIAGE. 

What  a  curious  and  flexible  thing  is  the  human 
heart,  either  in  love  or  business !  A  young  man,  or  lady 
either,  may,  in  their  young  days,  be  crossed  in  a  little 
love  affair,  and  for  the  time  being  think  they  are  irre- 
trievably ruined,  broken  up  and  gone.  All  that  most  of 
them  have  to  do  for  a  cure,  is  not  to  waste  very  much 
of  their  young  lives  grieving  because  they  have  been 
crossed  a  little.  They  will  find  that  all  the  red  roses 
don't  grow  in  one  garden. 

The  writer  has  had  experience  in  almost  every  phase 
of  love  escapades,  and  business  reverses  as  well  as  some 
successes,  and  his  heart  is  not  broken,  and  he  still  has 
some  hair  on  his  hoary  head  at  nearly  eighty  years  of 
age. 

After  many  of  these  little  love  affairs,  whether  real, 
sentimental,  funny  or  pathetic,  he  finally,  at  about  thirty 
years  of  age,  not  relishing  the  idea  of  being  an  old  bach- 
elor, and  with  the  instinct  of  all  created  beings  of  trans- 
mitting to  posterity  a  name  that  his  own  might  not  go 
down  to  oblivion,  concluded  that  it  was  getting  time  to 
find  a  sure  enough  sweetheart.  In  the  meantime,  his 
experience  along  this  line,  as  well  as  business  contact 
with  the  great  outside  world  had  taken  out  of  his  make- 
up some  of  that  diffidence  and  choky  feeling  while  try- 
ing to  be  pleasing  to  his  lady  love. 

So  he  worshipped  at  Beauty's  shrine,  telling  her  he 
loved  the  ground  she  walked  on,  and  all  that  soft,  sen- 
timental stuff  that  most  pretty  girls  like  so  well  to  have 
whispered  in  their  ear.     So  one  day,  or  possibly  night, 

18 


SEVENTY. FIVE    YEARS    ON    THE    BORDER 

(let  him  confess)  he  proposed  to  her;  she  intimated 
"yes,"  and  on  the  last  Thursday  evening  of  the  year 
1864,  we  were  married. 


"She  married  a  man  who  was  very  poor, 

And   many  children  played  around  her  door — 

Nine  in  all  has  she  had, 

Seven  now  living,  and  two  are  dead. 

"Little  Charley"  was  first  that  died; 

I  remember  how  we  wept  and  cried, 

When  Elihu  B.  was  forced  to  go, 

And  they  now  lie  side  by  side. 

There  is  a  little  room  left  between 

The  graves  of  mother 

And  Elihu  B.  and  little  brother; 

Six  feet  by  three 

Will  be  enough  for  me, 

We'll   sleep   there   close  together. 

And  in  the  Resurrection  morn, 

They  will  rejoice  that  they  were  born. 

The  names  of  our  children  are:  Rosa  Belle,  now 
Mrs.  Jos.  E.  Thompson,  Wallace  E.  (Little  Charley), 
Luke,  Roland  H.  (Elihu  B.),  Maude,  now  Mrs.  F.  Mar- 
tin, Herbert  S.  and  "Roger  Williams."  I  now  have 
seven  grandchildren,  all  girls,  and  there  is  a  possibility 
that  my  name  may  not  be  transmitted  in  my  own  family. 
However,  I've  two  boys  unmarried  yet;  of  course,  they 
want  to  marry.     They  ought  to  marry. 

Midway  Place,  Dec.  16,  1911. 


CHAPTER  6. 


MY     TWO     SISTERS— SALLY     ANN     AND     ANN 
ELIZA  WILLIAMS. 

The  older,  Sally  A.,  was  about  seven  years  and  Ann 
Eliza  was  about  four  years  old  when  our  father  died. 
We  had  a  tough  time,  I  can  say,  but  went  through  it 


SEVENTY. FIVE   YEARS   ON    THE   BORDER 

all  right  and  are  all  alive  yet,  sixty-three  years  since 
that,  to  us,  sad  event.  However,  time  is  telling  on  our 
feeble  frames.     We  are  tottering  down — 

"Shades  of  evening,  close  not  o'er  us, 
Leave   our  lonely   barque   awhile, 
That  we  may  view  just  before  us 
Yonder  dim  and  distant  Isle." 

The  younger  married  John  Schreck  early  in  Janu- 
ary, 1865,  and  Sally  A.  stayed  with  mother  and  me  for 
several  years.  During  war  time,  she  went  to  the  school 
of  the  good  Sisters  of  the  Sacred  Heart  Convent  at  St. 
Joseph.  Although  immovable  in  her  Christian  faith,  she 
was  awarded  the  highest  honors  of  the  school,  whose 
scholars  were  a  large  majority  Catholics,  on  a  tie  vote 
between  her  and  a  good  Catholic  girl.  She  never  tires 
of  saying  nice  things  about  those  good  Sisters  of  the 
Convent. 

After  returning  home,  she  taught  school  in  her  home 
district  for  many  terms,  finally  marrying  John  L.  Hock- 
ensmith.  She  has  one  girl,  Miss  Mary  Hockensmith, 
now  living  with  her  at  Turney,  Mo.  I  am  glad  to  say, 
Sally  has  stood  by  me  in  every  trial  in  life,  through  evil, 
as  well  as  good,  report,  and  I  can  say  with  a  clear  con- 
science, I've  never  betrayed  any  trust  she  has  placed 
in  me. 

We  are  now  tottering  down  the  shady  evening  of 
life.  We  love  to  recount  the  many  incidents  of  our 
childhood  days,  some  of  them  comical,  some  pathetic, 
others  tragic  and  sorrowful,  with  many  very  pleasant 
memories  of  early  youth — 

"Days  and  years  revolve  but  slowly, 
Time  grows  tedious  to  the  young, 
In  the  hope  of  coming  pleasure, 
Soon  our  days  and  years  are  gone; 
Soon  they're  gone,  we  know  not  whither, 
Age  steals  on  us  unaware." 

Sister  Ann  Eliza  married  a  Mr.  John  Schreck.  They 
now  live  about  fifty  miles  west  of  Oklahoma  City  on  a 

15 


SEVENTY. FIVE    YEARS    ON    THE    BORDER 

4  1 

good  farm.  Have  several  children,  I  think  all  married. 
The  oldest,  Leslie,  has  been  a  commercial  traveler  for 
many  years,  commencing  with  the  Wyeth  Hardware  Co. 
of  St.  Joseph,  when  a  boy  of  10  or  12  years  of  age,  at  a 
salary  of  $12.00  a  month  or  less.  Is  now  with  the  Sim- 
mons "Keen  Kutter"  Hardware  Co.  of  St.  Louis,  said  to 
be  the  largest  hardware  company  in  the  world,  at  a  sal- 
ary of  about  $3000.00  per  annum. 

The  oldest  girl,  Alice,  married  a  successful  furniture 
man  of  Falls  City,  Nebraska.  Alice  is  one  of  the  best 
of  my  kinsfolk  and  deserves  the  best  in  the  land. 


CHAPTER  7. 


AN  INDIAN  STORY. 


THRILLING  ACCOUNT  OF  AN  INDIAN  SCARE  IN 
THE  PIONEER  DAYS. 


Early  Settlers  Fortified  For  Twelve  Hours  Against  the 
Red  Men— Thirst  Drives  Them  Forth. 


My  father  settled  the  farm  I  now  live  on  in  the 
spring  of  1842,  moving  from  Van  Buren  (now  Cass) 
County,  Mo.  He  hired  his  youngest  brother,  William 
(better  known  in  this  community  as  Uncle  Bill  Will- 
iams), to  come  with  him  to  help  him  improve  his  new 
place.  For  a  time  everything  went  exceedingly  well 
until  Uncle  Bill  fell  desperately  in  love  with  Miss  Har- 
riet, daughter  of  that  old  pioneer,  Isaac  D.  Baldwin.  It 
was  such  a  distressing  case  of  love  that  it  totally  unfitted 
the  young  man  for  business,  and  resulted  in  their  mar- 
riage the  following  autumn.  When  the  honeymoon  was 
over,  Uncle  Bill  went  to  work  in  earnest,  and  settled  on 
the  farm  now  owned  by  Mr.  Ezra  Charlton. 


SEVENTY. FIVE   YEARS    ON    THE    BORDER 

It  was  along  in  the  fall  of  1843  that  my  father  and 
Uncle  Bill  had  occasion  to  go  back  to  Cass  county  to 
finish  some  unsettled  business,  expecting  to  be  gone  some 
ten  days.  It  was  arranged  that  Aunt  Harriet  should 
come  and  stay  with  mother  and  us  children  while  father 
and  uncle  were  gone.  They  had  been  gone  several  days 
when  the  incident  of  which  I  write  occurred.  We  had 
a  seap  spring  dug  out  just  where  prairie  and  timber  came 
together,  northwest  of  our  house  about  150  yards. 

Just  at  dark  mother  discovered  that  there  was  but 
little  water  for  over  night.  So  aunt  took  a  water  pail 
and  started  for  the  spring.  After  being  gone  a  few  min- 
utes she  came  running  back  terribly  frightened  at  what 
she  said  was  a  great  big  Indian  with  his  black-striped 
blanket  drawn  over  his  shoulders.  It  was  now  growing 
dark,  and  we  were  too  badly  scared  to  attempt  to  go  to 
any  of  the  neighbors,  so  we  concluded  to  fortify  and 
hold  the  fort. 

Mother,  having  been  in  Missouri  during  the  war  of 
1812,  and  having  lived  with  Captain  Calloway,  son-in-law 
of  the  old  Indian  fighter,  Daniel  Boone,  was  supposed  to 
know  something  of  Indian  strategy,  so  it  devolved  on 
her  to  do  the  planning.  After  counseling  it  was  decided 
that  she  and  aunt  should  dress  up  in  men's  clothes  to 
make  the  Indians  believe  there  were  several  men  about 
the  place — I  will  digress  a  little  by  saying  that  the  In- 
dians from  the  territory  west  of  the  Missouri  River  came 
over  in  Missouri  every  fall  for  several  years  after  I  lived 
here  to  hunt,  and  it  was  no  uncommon  thing  to  see  the 
woods  full  of  them. 

Well,  now  the  funny  part  of  the  story  commences. 
Aunt  Harriet  tried  putting  on  a  pair  of  my  father's  old 
brown  jeans  breeches.  After  an  exciting  struggle  she 
succeeded  in  putting  them  on  over  her  clothing,  but  the 
legs  were  rather  long ;  they  were  rolled  up,  but  would  not 
stay  up.  Mother  sewed  them  for  her.  The  next  move 
was  the  coat.  So  they  hunted  up  an  old  sleeve  jacket 
(round-about  or  womus  as  they  were  called  at  that  time). 

17 


SEYENTY-FIVE    YEARS    ON    THE    BORDER 

Now,  for  the  finishing  touch,  I  went  under  the  bed  and 
fished  out  a  pile  of  old  rubbish  an  old  and  very  dilapi- 
dated two  story  plug  hat,  the  upper  story  badly  caved  in. 
She  donned  the  hat,  and  I  will  say  from  that  day  to  this 
I  have  never  seen  a  more  laughable  looking  piece  of  hu- 
manity. Every  time  I  think  of  her  grotesque  appearance, 
a  smile  will  involuntarily  come  to  my  face.  Next  for 
her  armament.  We  had  but  one  gun,  and  I,  being  quite 
an  expert  for  my  age  in  the  use  of  a  rifle,  it  was  decided 
that  I  was  to  use  the  gun.  So  aunt,  for  appearance,  took 
the  long  hickory  poker  that  was  invariably  found  in  all 
cabins  at  that  day,  throwed  it  across  her  shoulder  and 
commenced  her  stately  tread  as  a  man  of  war. 

Meantime  mother  and  I  were  not  idle.  She,  seeing 
the  heroic  efforts  of  my  aunt  to  get  into  the  breeches, 
concluded  that  she  could  make  a  pretty  good  appearance 
by  putting  on  a  large  overcoat  of  my  father's,  which  was 
made  of  a  Mackinaw  blanket  that  had  black  stripes 
around  for  a  border,  and  to  recompense  for  the  lack  of 
pants  she  put  on  a  pair  of  old  Stoga  boots,  and  stuffed 
her  dress  in  the  tops  of  them,  and  taken  altogether,  her 
toilet  was  almost  as  ludicrous  as  aunt's.  After  getting 
on  her  suit  she  went  down  toward  the  horse  stable  and 
gave  orders  in  as  coarse  a  voice  as  she  could  affect  to 
Thomas  and  John,  two  imaginary  servants,  about  the 
feeding  of  several  imaginary  horses.  Meanwhile  I  was 
firing  minute  guns  with  the  old  rifle  at  intervals  as  long 
as  my  ammunition  held  out.  So  the  night  drew  on 
apace.  Meanwhile  we  had  given  up  keeping  out  a 
picket  so  we  had  all  gone  into  the  cabin  and  bar- 
ricaded the  rough  clap-board  door  with  a  large  square 
table,  built  up  a  rousing  log  fire  for  light,  and  kept 
up  as  much  noise  as  possible.  At  about  10  o'clock  we 
all  got  very  sleepy  and  finally  concluded  that  the  Indians 
perhaps  might  not  have  meant  any  harm.  We  slept  till 
daybreak,  and  with  the  excitement  and  big  fire,  were  so 
thirsty  that  we  had  to  have  water.  So  I  took  the  gun 
as  a  guard,  mother  and  aunt  a  pail  each,  and  we  went 

18 


SEVENTY-FIVE   YEARS   ON    THE    BORDER 

cautiously  down  toward  the  spring.  It  was  just  getting 
light  and  the  object  about  where  aunt  had  seen  her 
Indian.  It  was  a  ground  hog  case — we  had  to  have 
water.  We  did  not  run,  but  approached  the  object 
cautiously,  when,  behold!  it  was  nothing  more  than  an 
old  stump  that  had  been  burned  around  the  roots,  which 
accounted  for  the  Indian  and  the  black  stripe  on  his 
blanket. 


CHAPTER  8. 


MY  FIRST  COMMERCIAL  VENTURE. 


ABOUT  THE  LONG  AGO. 


Reminiscence  of  The  Days  When  Clinton  County  Was 

a  Wild. 


Cameron,  Mo.,  March  26th,   1896. 
Editor  of  The  Leader. 

On  reading  in  last  week's  Plattsburg  Leader  the  let- 
ter of  Gen.  Bela  M.  Hughes,  it  brought  to  my  mind  a 
little  incident  which  occurred  more  than  fifty  years  ago 
in  which  your  father,  Thos.  McMichael,  myself,  and 
General  B.  M.  Hughes  were  the  actors. 

The  earlier  settlers  will  remember  that  at  that  time 
county  produce  consisted  mostly  of  furs,  pelts,  beeswax, 
venison,  hams,  and  etc.  As  my  father  had  settled  out 
on  Shoal  Creek,  in  the  vicinity  of  that  old  pioneer,  Isaac 
D.  Baldwin,  which  was  then  an  almost  unbroken  wilder- 
ness of  timber  and  underbrush,  with  skirts  of  prairie 
intervening,  it  was  a  paradise  for  wild  game,  such  as 
deer,  turkey,  prairie  chickens,  quail,  and  etc.  My  father 
was  quite  expert  at  hunting  with  the  rifle,  which  was  to 
be  found  in  every  settler's  cabin,  and  usually  of  a  fall  he 
dressed  and  smoked  a  lot  of  venison  hams. 

19 


SEVENTY. FIVE    YEARS    ON    THE    BORDER 

1 

On  one  fine  morning  in  October  my  parents  con- 
cluded to  send  me  to  Plattsburg,  then  the  only  village 
in  the  county  (Haynesville  had  not  been  heard  of  then), 
to  sell  some  produce,  which  consisted  of  a  fine  pair  of 
venison  hams,  nicely  dressed  and  smoked. 

After  a  long  and  irksome  ride  over  the  old  Far  West 
trail,  I  arrived  on  the  hill  north  of  town,  just  as  the  bell 
in  old  man  Palmer's  old  rickety  belfry,  which  surmounted 
the  old  Hotel,  was  giving  out  its  melodious  chimes  an- 
nouncing to  wayfarers  that  the  noon  meal  was  about 
ready.  Arrived,  I  hitched  my  horse,  and  took  the  meal 
bag  containing  my  produce  on  my  back,  and  rather  ir- 
resolutely (it  was  my  first  commercial  venture),  started 
for  McMichael's  store.  When  I  entered  Mr.  McMichael 
was  waiting  on  a  customer.  I  stood  in  one  corner,  too 
diffident  to  say  a  word.  As  soon  as  the  customer  had 
been  waited  on,  Mr.  McMichael  came  to  me  with  a  pleas- 
ant greeting,  and  asked  me  whose  son  I  was.  I  told  him 
Luke  Williams'.  And  what  can  I  do  for  you  my  son? 
I  told  him  (as  he  had  gained  my  confidence  by  his  kind 
words)  that  I  had  some  deer's  hams,  as  I  called  them,  for 
sale.  He  looked  at  them,  and  said  that  they  were  very 
fine,  and  asked  me  the  price.  I  answered,  "Pap"  said  to 
ask  a  dollar,  but  if  I  could  not  get  that  to  take  75  cents, 
whereupon  he  told  me  that  he  was  fully  supplied,  but  to 
take  them  over  to  the  land-office;  that  Mr.  Hughes 
would  buy  them,  but  to  ask  the  dollar,  and  take  nothing 
less.  Feeling  reassured  that  I  had  one  friend  in  Platts- 
burg, I  bounded  nimbly  up  the  steps  of  the  little  one 
story  building  in  which  was  the  United  States  land-office, 
and  I  well  remember  just  how  Mr.  Hughes  looked  with 
beautiful  wavy  hair,  and  quill  pen  behind  his  ear.  He 
looked  every  inch  the  gentleman  that  he  was.  He  exam- 
ined my  goods  critically,  and  without  any  haggling 
pulled  out  of  his  pocket  a  bright  Mexican  silver  dollar, 
and  gave  it  to  me,  and  with  part  of  the  proceeds  of  that 
sale  I  made  the  most  valuable  purchase  of  my  life,  for 
I  found  that  I  had  enough  money  left  from  the  big  sale 
of  my  hams  to  more  than  pay  for  the  few  little  articles 


SEVENTY-FIVE   YEARS    ON    THE    BORDER 

mother  sent  for,  and  I  bought  a  copy  of  Pike's  Arithme- 
tic, and  learned  from  it  as  a  text  book,  and  studied  hard 
to  master  its  problems.  What  little  I  know  of  mathe- 
matics the  foundation  was  laid  in  the  purchase  of  that 
little  book.  And  well  do  I  remember  mother's  smile  and 
encouraging  words  of  approbation  for  my  purchasing  a 
useful  book  in  place  of  toys  and  sweet-meats. 

My  mother  claimed  to  be  a  distant  relative  of  Gen- 
eral Hughes,  through  the  Metcalf  family  of  Kentucky. 

JAMES  WILLIAMS. 


CHAPTER  9. 


A  'POSSUM  HUNT  SIXTY-TWO  YEARS  AGO. 

While  in  Cass  County  going  to  that  school  that  I've 
mentioned  several  times,  at  which  the  writer  and  Lottie 
Farmer  had  the  spelling  contest  for  the  little  Bible,  I 
and  three  of  my  cousins,  brothers  of  Luke  Williams,  our 
teacher,  one  nice,  moonshiny  night  concluded  to  go  out 
coon  and  'possum  hunting  in  the  woods  of  the  north 
fork  of  Big  Creek,  near  where  Greenwood  in  Jackson 
County  now  is.  We  frequently  went  'possum  hunting 
late  in  the  fall  after  the  persimmons  had  been  frozen  sev- 
eral times.  One  can  depend  on  finding  the  opossum 
where  there  are  plenty  of  persimmons. 

My  cousins  had  a  great,  big  torn  cat,  a  good  fighter. 
We'd  get  a  'possum,  which  would  always  sulk,  or  as  is 
sometimes  said  of  persons,  "you're  possuming"  (trying 
to  deceive),  and  carry  him  home  by  his  long,  scaly  tail. 
Then  we'd  get  Thomas,  and  take  a  good  long  string  and 
tie  Thomas'  tail  to  his  'possumship's  tail,  and  throw  one 
of  them  across  the  pole  on  which  they  used  to  hang  up 
hogs  at  "hog  killing  time ;"  let  me  tell  my  boy  friends  it 
didn't  take  Tom  long  to  wake  up  out  of  his  apparent 
trance  his  'possumship  and  at  it  they  went,  and  it  was 
not  long  before  Tom  began  to  rue  that  he'd  picked  a 

21 


SEVENTY-FIVE    YEARS    ON    THE    BORDER 

i - 

quarrel  with  that  old  'possum,  and  we  would  always 
have  to  come  to  Tom's  rescue,  or  that  'possum  would 
have  soon  put  poor  Thorn,  "hors  de  combat." 

So  away  we  went  to  catch  'possums,  coons,  or  any- 
thing else  that  would  make  fun.  We  had  two  monster 
grey  hounds.  Not  the  little,  long  legged  type,  but  great, 
big  fellows  nearly  as  big  as  some  of  Teddy  Roosevelt's 
African  lions  killed  in  his  famous  hunting  expedition. 
We  had  no  luck  that  night  in  treeing  either  coons  or 
'possums,  and  had  started  home,  when,  at  once  the  dogs 
started  full  speed  after  some  animal  running  furiously 
through  the  brush  and  timber.  We  stopped  and  listened. 
They  ran,  whatever  it  was  they  were  after,  down  under 
a  high  cliff,  yelling  and  snapping  such  as  I  had  not  heard 
before  or  since.  They  seemed  to  have  him  backed  up 
in  a  niche,  grotto,  or  some  place  they  could  not  more 
than  one  of  them  get  at  him  at  a  time,  snapping  and 
yelling  as  though  they'd  been  hurt  by  the  animal  they 
had  at  bay. 

Finally  we  boys,  took  a  scare  and  we  made  tracks 
for  home  in  a  hurry,  without  finding  out  what  Lesco  and 
Yellow,  the  names  of  the  big  greyhounds  had  under  that 
cliff.  We  concluded  they  had  come  suddenly  on  one,  or 
more  of  those  big,  black  or  grey  timber  wolves,  which 
got  in  a  place  where  he  could  defend  himself  by  snap- 
ping at  them,  and  only  one  could  approach  him  at  a  time, 
or  they  would  have  pulled  him  out  and  killed  him,  which 
they  frequently  did. 


CHAPTER  10. 


HEMP  AND  BACON  GOING  TO  MARKET. 

I  think  it  will  bring  a  broad  smile  to  the  faces  of 
many  of  my  latter  day  friends  when  I  tell  them  that 
Mirabile  was  the  market  for  the  above  hemp  and  bacon. 

My  father  raised  about  two  acres  of  hemp  the  sum- 


SEVENTY-FIVE   YEARS   ON    THE    BORDER 

mer  he  died,  1848.  Hemp,  at  that  day,  was  almost  as 
legal  a  tender  for  goods  as  was  the  "coin  of  the  realm." 
They  cut  it  in  August  with  a  kind  of  a  draghook  with 
long  handle,  by  hand-spreading  it  out  behind  them. 
They  cut  a  swath  about  as  wide  as  the  hemp  was  long 
to  have  room  to  spread  it.  They  took  it  up  in  about  ten 
days,  knocked  the  dry  leaves  off  and  put  it  in  shocks 
tying  them  at  top  like  corn.  They  let  the  shocks  stand 
until  thoroughly  dry,  then  spread  them  out  on  the  same 
ground  to  rot  the  stems  so  they  would  break  in  a  hemp 
break  when  properly  rotted. 

It  devolved  on  me,  as  a  boy  of  13  years,  to  prepare 
this  patch  of  hemp  for  market.  After  getting  it  properly 
rotted,  I  borrowed  an  old  flax  break  in  the  neighborhood 
(a  flax  break  is  too  small  to  break  hemp  well)  and  kept 
pegging  away  at  it,  threshing  the  hands  of  lint  across  the 
top  of  the  break  to  get  the  shoves  out,  as  we  called  the 
broken  stems  from  which  the  lint  peeled  off  in  the  pro- 
cess of  breaking. 

After  finishing  a  hand  we'd  twist  it  up  something 
like  twist  tobacco  only  leaving  about  half  of  the  frazzled 
ends  loose,  but  tying  it  securely  where  we  left  off  twist- 
ing. Where  a  large  commercial  crop  was  raised  in  the 
river  counties,  these  "hands"  were  placed  in  a  nice  bale, 
then  put  under  a  great  screw  press  and  were  very  solid, 
and  compact  enough  to  ship  to  Liverpool,  the  hemp  mar- 
ket of  the  world,  there  to  be  made  into  cordage  and 
shrouding  for  the  great  sail  ships  for  the  commerce  of 
the  civilized  world.  We  didn't  have  a  screw  press,  but 
used  a  long  pole,  the  short  end  in  a  crack  of  a  log  stable. 
A  wide  slab  was  laid  on  the  top  of  the  pile  of  hemp  with 
a  V-shaped  block  for  a  fulcrum  on  top  of  the  slab.  One 
boy  at  the  long  end  of  lever  pressed  down,  while  another 
boy  tied  the  ropes — we  had  no  wire  baling  ties  then. 

In  this  way  we  got  two  bales  weighing  about  100 
pounds  each.  We  also  had  about  four  middlings  of  bacon 
to  spare,  and  we  needed  shoes  and  other  goods  more  than 
we  did  "hemp  and  bacon,"  so  we  lashed  two  middlings  on 
top  of  each  bale  of  hemp,  putting  a  good,  big  piece  of 

23 


SEVENTY. FIVE    YEARS    ON    THE    BORDER 

A 

carpet  on  the  horses  instead  of  saddles.  We  two  boys 
each  mounted  the  horses,  first  putting  our  produce  on 
top  of  a  stake — and — ridered  fence  to  facilitate  loading  it 
on  horses  before  us. 

Talk  about  transportation;  talk  about  caravans  of 
the  desert !  I'll  say  this  was  the  toughest  transportation 
job  I  ever  tackled.  Just  think  of  one  boy  13  and  another 
about  10  years  old  keeping  that  huge  bundle  on  a  horse 
for  ten  miles  without  a  saddle  or  stirrups !  And  to  make 
it  more  aggravating  to  us,  we  met  some  men  just  a  mile 
or  so  this  side  of  our  goal.  They  looked  astonished,  and 
one  of  them  rather  jocosely  remarked,  "Hemp  and  bacon 
going  to  market,"  but  we  got  there  just  the  same. 

The  balance  of  that  crop  of  hemp  rotted  in  the  field. 
There  has  never  been  another  hemp  seed  sown  on  Mid- 
way Place  Farm  from  that  day  to  this. 

This  true  story  of  my  experience  in  the  halcyon  days 
of  hemp  raising  in  the  Missouri  Valley,  I  give  to  my 
friends  as  a  Christmas  present  this  December  25th,  1911. 


CHAPTER    11. 


HOW    DAVE    KIRKPATRICK    AND    ZEKE    DUN- 
CAN BEAT  SOME  THREE-CARD 
MONTE  MEN  AT  OMAHA. 

Dave  and  Zeke  were  native  backwoods  boys  of  our 
neighborhood,  whom  the  writer  knew  all  their  lives. 
In  fact  I  was  a  pupil  of  Dave's  father  in  that  primitive 
school;  he  taught  near  Cameron  a  long  time  before  the 
town  was  laid  out,  and  for  that  day,  was  an  excellent 
teacher. 

Dave  had  inherited  a  little  land  from  his  father's 
estate,  which  he  had  sold  to  Judge  Estep  for  $400.00 
or  $500.00  in  cash,  so  he  and  Zeke  started  out  to  see  the 
world,  bound  for  California.  The  Union  Pacific  at  that 
time  was  the  only  transcontinental  line  finished  to  the 

M 







SEVENTY-FIVE   YEARS    ON    THE    BORDER 

Pacific  coast,  so  if  one  would  go  west,  he  would  neces- 
sarily have  to  go  via  Omaha. 

Our  two  young  friends  went  to  Omaha,  which  at 
that  time,  was  a  pretty  lively  burg.  Of  course,  Dave 
and  Zeke  drifted  into  a  saloon  and  gambling  den.  Dave 
had  about  all  the  money  in  the  crowd,  all  in  bank  bills 
in  an  inside  vest  pocket.  Dave  was  not  near  as  green 
as  he  looked ;  in  fact,  Dave  had  seen  some  of  the  smooth, 
pasteboard  gentry  before.  They  gawked  around  the 
gaming  tables  till  finally  they  ran  onto  two  fellows, 
one  of  whom  was  fooling  with  three  cards.  The  other 
seemed  to  be  a  stranger,  as  was  Dave  and  Zeke.  The 
one  looking  on  finally  commenced  asking  the  one  who 
was  fooling  with  the  cards  some  questions  about  what 
he  was  trying  to  do,  so  the  dealer  explained  the  trick 
of  monte  to  all  three  of  the  bystanders,  shuffling  his 
cards  from  hand  to  hand  as  monte  men  do.  Dave 
and  Zeke's  new  found  friend,  remarked  that  that  man 
must  have  money  to  throw  at  birds,  or  he  would  not 
offer  to  bet  on  a  thing  that  was  so  plain  that  any  one 
could  win  his  money,  telling  them  how  easy  it  was  to 
follow  a  given  card  with  the  eye,  then  put  their  money 
down  on  it  and  rake  off  the  pile. 

Dave,  looking  just  as  green  as  he  possibly  could, 
took  out  a  big,  black  plug  of  Navy,  bit  off  a  "chaw"  and 
handed  the  plug  to  Zeke,  who  followed  suit,  standing 
around  and  looking  on  at  the  various  games  going  on. 
Finally  Dave  reached  'way  down  under  his  coat  and 
fumbled  around,  digging  up  his  wallet  containing  the 
$500.00,  and,  taking  a  ten  out,  put  the  wallet  back  in 
the  vest  pocket  as  carefully  as  a  veritable  old  miser 
would  have  done,  and  told  the  dealer  he'd  try  his  luck 
any  way. 

Now  that  big  wallet  of  ready  cash  in  the  hands 
of  a  green  looking  country  boy  opened  the  heart  of  a 
three-card  monte  dealer  for  once,  which  seldom  occurs, 
so  he  covered  Dave's  ten  and  let  Dave  win,  thinking 
he  had  a  sure  thing  on  most  of  that  wad  of  Dave's,  but 
it  turned  out  he'd    "reckoned    without    his    host."      On 

25 


SEVENTY-FIVE    YEARS    ON    THE    BORDER 

i 

Dave's  winning,  the  smooth  partner  said,  "I  told  you 
I  knew  that  you  could  detect  the  winning  card  with 
that  quick  eye  of  yours,"  pulling  out  a  roll  saying,  "I'll 
go  your  partner  and  we'll  bust  this  concern  and  put  them 
out  of  business."  Whereupon  Dave  coolly  took  another 
chew  of  tobacco,  remarking  he  did  not  care  to  win  more 
than  ten  dollars  at  one  time  from  a  lot  of  three-card 
monte  black  legs,  saying,  "Let's  go,  Zeke."  I  got  this 
story  from  Zeke  several  years  after  both  had  returned. 

I'll  give  a  little  of  my  own  experience  with  "con- 
fidence men"  and  three-card  sharpers.  I  have  never 
seen  much  of  them  as  I  would  never  loaf  around  a  saloon 
or  gambling  house.  From  my  boyhood,  I've  despised 
games  of  cards  of  every  kind,  even  when  lying  around  in 
camp  in  war  time.  Seeing  those  games  going  on  day 
and  night,  I  never  even  learned  the  value  of  any  card 
in  any  of  the  various  games  played.  I've  always  avoided 
them,  and  I  believe  if  all  the  cards  that  I've  consigned 
to  the  flames  on  my  farm  could  be  gotten  into  a  pile, 
they  would  fill  a  peck  measure.  Hired  hands  would 
have  them,  and  on  rainy  days  would  have  their  games 
in  the  hay  mow  in  the  barn,  and  carelessly  leave  them 
in  sight,  and  if  I  found  them,  they  never  furnished  any 
further  amusement. 

In  time  of  the  war,  on  one  trip  to  Chicago  I  shipped 
two  cars  of  hogs  and  sold  them  at  the  Cottage  Grove 
Yards,  which  were  located  near  the  Douglass  place,  the 
old  homestead  of  the  little  giant  Democratic  politician,  so 
renowned  for  his  debates  with  the  immortal  Lincoln. 

I  sold  them  myself,  as  usual  at  that  time,  the  buyer 
paying  me  the  current  funds  in  bank  bills.  After  paying 
freight  and  hotel  bills,  I  bounced  a  "hoss  car"  and 
headed  north  on  State  street  for  the  business  part  of 
the  city.  I  think  I  was  intending  to  buy  some  gold 
coin  to  bring  home  for  some  of  my  "clientele,"  who  were 
able  to  hoard  it  against  a  sudden  emergency,  which  fre- 
quently happened  in  those  dreadful  days. 

I  was  walking  leisurely  along  a  street,  I  think  in 
the   vicinity   of   Mr.   Gage's  bank,    who,    it  will   be   re- 


SEVENTY. FIVE   YEARS   ON    THE    BORDER 

membered,  was  a  good  many  years  later,  Secretary  of 
the  Treasury  in  President  Cleveland's  administration, 
I  believe.  While  going  a  little  slowly  looking  for  a  bank, 
a  slick  looking  fellow  suddenly  accosted  me,  saying, 
"Didn't  I  meet  you  down  at  the  Cottage  Grove  Stock 
Yards?"  I  looked  him  over,  instantly  concluding  he  was 
entirely  too  familiar,  but  as  it  was  in  broad  daylight,  and 
on  a  crowded  street,  it  went  through  my  head  I'd  see 
what  he  was  up  to.  He  said  to  me,  "I  presume  you  had 
stock  in,  as  I  saw  you  weighing  some  hogs."  I  answered 
in  the  affirmative.  His  next  question  was,  "What  part  of 
the  country  do  you  ship  from?"  Replying,  I  told  him 
from  Cameron,  Missouri,  whereupon  he  volunteered  the 
information  that  he  was  a  merchant  from  St.  Joseph  and 
had  brought  in  a  lot  of  stock  also,  and  that  was  why 
he  had  come  to  see  and  recognize  me  on  the  street  and 
he  kept  on  talking  his  familiar  gab. 

It  seemed  I  could  not  get  rid  of  him;  if  I  walked 
a  little  faster,  he'd  do  the  same.  If  I  walked  slower, 
he'd  do  likewise,  and  kept  discussing  the  markets.  I 
suspicioned  him  from  the  first,  but  believed  he  was  a 
pickpocket,  and  kept  a  sharp  lookout  for  my  money, 
which  I  had  in  an  inside  vest  pocket  buttoned  at  top  of 
the  pocket  so  a  pickpocket  could  not  possibly  get  it  with- 
out cutting  a  big  hole  through  the  coat  and  vest,  or 
by  violence,  and  I  thought  there  was  little  danger  of 
either  on  that  crowded  business  street  in  daylight. 

Suddenly,  he  met  a  man  and  they  shook  hands  very 
cordially  and  commenced  bantering  about  a  case  of 
laces,  or  goods.  They  seemed  to  be  apart  on  the  price, 
one,  then  the  other,  conceding  a  little  till  they  closed 
the  trade.  It  was  then  it  instantly  dawned  on  me  they 
were  scoundrels,  as  no  such  wholesale  dry  goods  sale 
as  that  was  ever  consummated  out  in  a  busy  street. 
I  waited  a  little  to  see  the  outcome  of  that  deal.  The 
buyer  took  out  a  $1,000.00  bill  and  a  $500.00  one;  I 
think  the  amount  was  about  $1,400.00  that  bogus  deal 
called  for.  They  fumbled  around  quite  a  spell  trying  to 
make  change,  when,   finally,   my   Missouri   friend   said 

27 


SEVENTY. FIVE    YEARS    ON    THE    BORDER 

to  me,  "Would  you  be  kind  enough  to  change  one  of 
these  bills  for  us;  it  seems  we  can't  make  it  ourselves." 
I  instantly  saw  their  game  was  to  pass  a  big  counter- 
feit bill  on  me,  and  get  good  money  in  change,  where- 
upon I  told  them  I  did  not  change  money  in  a  crowded 
street,  and  pointed  out  Mr.  Gage's  bank  saying  it  would 
be  a  good  place  to  do  the  kind  of  business  they  appeared 
to  be  doing,  but  I  did  not  think  they  could  put  a  big 
counterfeit  bill  on  the  bank. 

I  then  yelled  "police,"  and  the  coat  tails  of  those 
slick  confidence  fellows  stood  out  behind  them  level 
enough  for  a  three-card  monte  man  to  have  practised 
his  juggling  art  on.  When  the  police  arrived  I  told 
him  how  those  fellows  tried  to  scoop  me,  but  had  failed. 
The  policeman  said  they  had,  within  the  last  few  days, 
beaten  several  victims  out  of  big  wads  of  money. 

It  seemed  the  confidence  and  three-card  monte  men 
had  determined  not  to  let  me  get  home  that  trip.  I 
arrived  in  Quincy  next  morning,  and  at  that  time  had 
to  take  the  Keokuk  Packet  boat  to  Hannibal  (the 
Quincy  and  Palmyra  cut-off  had  not  then  been  made). 
The  boat  was  at  the  wharf  taking  on  a  lot  of  freight. 
I  had  nothing  to  do,  and  went  up  into  the  cabins, 
where  there  were  many  nice  looking  people. 

It  was  quite  warm,  and  a  rather  affable  gentleman, 
who  had  commenced  a  conversation  with  me  on  weather, 
crop  prospects,  etc.  (he  could  see  I  was  a  granger  and 
concluded  I  might  be  gullible)  proposed  we'd  go  up 
on  top  of  the  boat  where  there  were  some  people  al- 
ready. So,  not  thinking  of  any  scheme,  I  went  along 
and  we  strolled  around  to  the  back  end,  or  stern,  of 
the  upper  deck,  when,  suddenly  my  chaperon  ran  nearly 
into  a  fellow,  who  was,  as  usual,  fooling  with  three 
cards.  It  instantly  flashed  on  me  what  my  genial,  new 
found  friend  was  up  to.  He  pretended  surprise,  and, 
stepping  back  a  little,  asked  the  card  man  what  he  was 
driving  at,  who  told  him  that  over  in  town  that  morn- 
ing, he  saw  a  fellow  who  pretended  that  he  could  shuf- 


SEVENTY. FIVE    /EARS    ON    THE    BORDER 

fle  cards  back  and  forth  so  quickly  the  eye  could  not 
follow  him — the  usual  three-card  man's  racket. 

My  friend  pretended  to  get  intensely  interested, 
and  finally  proposed  to  me  that  we'd  try  our  luck  just 
for  fun.  I  was  so  disgusted  I  felt  like  kicking  them 
both  over  the  railing  into  the  river,  and  I  plainly  told 
them  they  had  struck  the  wrong  man  for  a  victim  of 
three-card  monte  black  legs,  and  immediately  walked 
away. 


CHAPTER   12. 


J.  Q.  A.  KEMPER. 

I  have  known  personally  and  well  the  elder  J.  Q. 
A.  Kemper,  of  Cameron,  Missouri,  now  in  his  86th  year. 
He  came  to  Missouri  in  1850,  and  I  have  known  him 
since  that  time.  He  is  now  living  with  a  daughter  in 
Cameron,  and  I  frequently  meet  with  him,  and  we 
always  drift  into  ye  olden  times  talk.  He  has  raised 
a  large  family  of  sons,  who  are  very  prosperous  busi- 
ness men.  Mr.  Kemper  is  a  relative  of  the  well  known 
financiers  in  Kansas  City,  of  same  name  and  nativity. 
He  has  steadfastly  kept  "the  faith  once  delivered  to  the 
saints"  as  expounded  by  "Roger  Williams"  in  early 
Colonial  days,  as  did  his  ancestors. 

He  participated  in  the  little  battle  at  Camden  Point, 
Missouri,  as  did  his  father-in-law,  Ex-Governor  George 
Smith,  and  is  one  of  the  three  or  four  of  us  left,  who 
were  in  that  fight.  I  will  relate  an  incident  of  that 
brush  fight  which  I  omitted  to  record  in  another  de- 
scription of  it. 

At  the  first  fire  of  the  confederates  on  us,  several 
of  our  brave  fellows,  who  were  in  the  rear  in  that 
narrow  lane,  turned  their  back  to  danger  and  made 
themselves  scarce  in  that  vicinity,  and  never  stopped 
until  they  arrived  in  Cameron,  and  one  or  two  in  Kings- 
ton. These  were  the  kind  of  men  who  were  so  indus- 
trious with  cards  of  nights,  and  made  the  night  hideous 


w 


SEVENTY-FIVE    YEARS    ON    THE    BORDER 


'1 


singing  *'Joe  Bowers"  in  a  major  key  (if  they  had  any 
key  at  all). 

The  Kempers  have  always  stood  high  as  business 
men  and  good  citizens,  and  have  the  confidence  and  es- 
teem of  all. 


CHAPTER    13. 


COLONEL  A.  W.  DONIPHAN. 

I  can  not  possibly  throw  any  additional  light  on  the 
brilliant  career  of  one  of  Missouri's  early  day  lawyers, 
soldiers  and  citizens,  Col.  A.  W.  Doniphan.  It  was  my 
good  fortune  to  hear  his  eloquence  and  pathos  in  one 
of  (perhaps)  the  greatest  efforts  of  his  long  legal  career. 

Three  men  of  St.  Joseph,  Missouri,  had  taken  a 
man  by  the  name  of  Willard  out  into  a  wooded  seclu- 
sion, handcuffed  and  tied  him,  stripped  his  shirt  off  and 
cowhided  him  by  turns,  pouring  whiskey,  or  trying  to, 
into  him,  and  drinking  it  themselves  off  and  on  for 
nearly  half  of  a  hot  day  in  July,  until  he,  Willard,  suc- 
cumbed from  sheer  exhaustion  and  torture,  as  shown 
by  Jenning's  confession,  who  was  found  guilty  and 
hanged  in  St.  Joseph  a  year  after  the  murder.  There 
is  but  little  question  that  Jennings  was  the  least  guilty 
of  the  participants  in  this  most  brutal  murder.  One  of 
my  neighbors,  Mr.  John  Pawley,  was  present  and  wit- 
nessed Jenning's  execution.  He  was  a  poor  man  so  it 
didn't  take  justice  long  to  overtake  him. 

Not  so  with  Langston,  who  had  some  property. 
Three  or  four  prominent  St.  Joseph  lawyers,  including 
Col.  A.  W.  Doniphan  of  Liberty,  were  employed  by 
Langston  in  his  defense.  The  prosecution  was  assisted 
by  Silas  Woodson,  who  had  recently  settled  in  St. 
Joseph,  and  was  elected  Governor  of  Missouri  many 
years  after.  (I'll  refer  my  readers  to  page  407,  His- 
tory of  Clinton  County  for  full  account  of  this  tragedy, 
which  occurred  at  St.  Joseph  in  the  year  1852,  60  years 
since.)     I'll  also  call  attention  to  what   Col.  Doniphan 


SEVENTY. FIVE   YEARS   ON    THE    BORDER 

says  in  another  chapter  of  the  above  mentioned  his- 
tory, in  writing  of  great  lawyers,  among  others  his 
distinguished  opponent  in  this -celebrated  trial. 

I  didn't  hear  the  evidence,  but  Jennings'  confession 
gives  a  good  idea  of  the  whole  transaction.  Every- 
body who  read  the  St.  Joseph  papers  at  that  time  were 
familiar  with  the  facts  brought  out  in  Jennings'  trial. 
All  I  cared  for  was  to  hear  the  two  most  brilliant  ora- 
tors of  the  bar  of  Western  Missouri  at  that  time.  From 
that  day  to  this,  I've  not  heard  such  matchless  ora- 
tory, as  fell  from  the  lips  of  Doniphan  pleading  with 
the  jury  to  spare  the  life  of  his  client,  Langston. 
Pleading  not  for  acquittal,  but  for  life.  At  times  there 
was  hardly  a  dry  eye  in  that  little  old  brick  temple  of 
justice,  his  brilliant  pathos  swaying  the  audience  and  to 
some  extent,  the  jury  (I  thought  at  the  time).  I  never 
have  known  of  a  murderer,  whom  I  thought  merited 
the  death  penalty  any  more  than  did  Langston,  taking 
Jennings'  confession  as  facts,  which  were  undoubtedly 
true. 

On  the  other  side,  Governor  Woodson  depicted  to 
the  jury  the  pleadings  of  poor  Willard,  who  was  being 
whipped  to  death  by  three  men  just  because  he  owed 
them  some  little  bills,  and  had  not  the  money  to  pay 
them  with,  and  kept  putting  them  off,  as  is  the  case  fre- 
quently with  delinquent  debtors,  terrible  scathing  denun- 
ciations of  the  brutality  of  any  human  beings,  who  could 
be  so  lost  to  pity  and  the  pleadings  for  mercy  of  the 
dying  man,  made  such  an  impression  on  me  at  the  time, 
much  as  I  have  been  against  the  death  sentence,  I  would 
have  voted  guilty  of  murder  in  the  first  degree,  while 
Jennings  did  not  think  murder  was  contemplated,  and 
probably  would  not  have  occurred  had  it  not  been  for 
the  inevitable  filling  up  with  whiskey,  which  is  the  usual 
stimulant  to  such  brutality. 

Doniphan's  eloquence  triumphed  and  saved  the  neck 
of  Langston,  who  got  20  years  in  the  pen.,  and  was  par- 
doned out  a  few  years  later  by  Bob  Stewart,  governor  of 
Missouri. 

M 


SEVENTY. FIVE    YEARS   ON    THE    BORDER 

i 

CHAPTER  14. 


A  FUNNY  INCIDENT  OF  WAR  TIME. 

While  this  little  incident  has  very  little  importance, 
it  is,  nevertheless,  a  little  funny.  I  was  shipping  a  load  of 
big  wether  sheep  to  St.  Louis  via  Hannibal,  where  we  un- 
loaded off  the  cars  early  in  the  morning  and  had  to  wait 
there  until  four  o'clock  P.  M.  for  the  fine  Keokuk  Packet, 
"Jennie  Deans",  one  of  the  finest  steamers  of  that  day; 
even  today  it,  and  its  twin  sister,  "Erne  Deans",  would 
be  called  fine.  I  concluded  I  would  graze  my  muttons 
some,  and  so  turned  them  out  near  where  the  big  ma- 
chine shops  of  the  H.  &  St.  Joe  Ry.  were  located  at  the 
foot,  and  nearly  under  the  high,  almost  perpendicular 
cliff.  I  hired  two  bright  Irish  boys  to  herd  them  and 
help  get  them  back  when  the  boat  arrived  on  which  they 
were  billed  through  to  St.  Louis. 

I  stayed  with  the  boys,  who  had  a  big  shepherd  dog 
that  knew  his  business,  and  I  went  and  got  lunch  for  all 
of  us,  and  we  had  a  nice  time  and  the  dog  did  most  of 
the  work.  He,  and  an  old  wether,  made  lots  of  fun  for 
us  and  all  that  big  crowd  of  passengers,  roustabouts  and 
everybody  else  about  the  machine  shops.  When  the 
boat  sounded  her  great  fog  horn  whistle  up  the  river, 
we  started  our  sheep  for  the  landing  to  be  ready  to  go 
on  board.  The  sheep  didn't  much  like  to  leave  the 
mountains,  but  with  boys  and  dog,  we  finally  got  'em 
all,  but  one,  in  the  vicinity  of  the  landing.  One  old,  big 
wether  concluded  he  would  remain  in  his  mountain 
fastness,  so  back  he  went,  up  that  nearly  sheer  precipice, 
where  near  the  top  was  a  shelving  rock  forming  a  ledge 
sticking  out  so  far  that  we  could  not  roll  rocks  down 
on  him  from  the  top,  and  it  was  too  steep  and  dangerous 
for  any  one  to  follow  him  on  that  narrow  ledge.  Besides, 
he  was  full  of  fight. 

The  excitement  and  fun  had  reached  the  passengers 
on  the  big  boat,  and  out  they  came  by  dozens  of  laugh- 
ing, jolly  people  to  see  the  fun,  knowing  that  the  boat 


SEVENTY. FIVE   YEARS   ON    THE    BORDER 

would  not  weigh  anchor  until  that  lot  of  sheep  were 
aboard.  Everybody  was  trying  a  hand  seeing  how  high 
each  could  throw  a  stone  but  all  to  no  purpose,  and  that 
old  mutton  was  still  "holding  the  fort",  when  one  of  the 
Irish  boys,  (owner  of  the  big  dog),  suggested  he  could 
get  him  out  of  that  hole,  so,  calling  his  dog,  and  climbing 
as  high  as  he  could  and  taking  the  dog  along  to  a  place 
on  the  side  of  the  cliff  where  the  dog  could  see  the  sheep, 
pointed  in  its  direction  and  said  "sic  him,  Shep,  bring 
him  out  of  there,  Shep." 

On  seeing  the  sheep,  the  dog  followed  along  on  the 
bench  under  the  overhanging  rock.  The  sheep  had  gone 
as  far  back  on  the  bench  as  he  could,  so  all  he  could  do 
was  to  turn  and  show  fight.  That  pugilistic  contest  was 
decided  in  favor  of  Shep,  who  grabbed  his  muttonship 
by  the  wool  of  his  shoulder  and  neck,  and  down  they 
came,  Shep  on  top,  half  the  time  at  any  rate,  rolling  over 
and  over  from  one  shelving  bench  to  another,  down  that 
high  bluff,  Shep  and  his  little  master  receiving  an  ova- 
tion at  the  hands  of  that  jolly  crowd. 

Shep  and  the  sheep  have  gone  the  way  of  the  earth. 
The  boys  may,  or  may  not,  be  living,  but  I  and  the  bluff 
are  here  yet ;  the  bluff  will  remain  a  mute  sentinel,  years 
after  we  are  all  passed  away. 


Since  writing  this  true  story  of  the  dog  and  sheep 
at  the  high  cliff  at  Hannibal  in  war  time,  I  have  been 
told  that  cliff  is  locally  known  as  Lover's  Leap,  instead 
of  a  dog  and  rolling  sheep. 

In  this  connection,  I  wish  to  say  to  all,  that  I  think 
my  friends,  the  Dildine  Bros,  of  the  Dildine  Bridge  Co., 
formerly  of  Cameron,  Mo.,  now  located  at  Hannibal,  will 
vouch  for  any  of  my  stories  which  I  claim  to  have  seen, 
or  in  which  I  have  been  a  participant,  as  based  on  facts. 

The  Dildine  Bridge  Company,  by  untiring  energy 
and  business  enterprise,  have  built  up  an  enviable  repu- 
tation for  good  work,  promptness  and  despatch. 


SEVENTY-FIVE    YEARS    ON    THE    BORDER 


CHAPTER  15. 


CLINTON  COUNTY'S  HEAVY  COURT. 

In  the  1858  election,  J.  C.  Scott,  B.  F.  Willis  and 
James  R.  Coffman,  were  elected  Judges  of  Clinton 
County  Court.  This  Court  was  designated,  for  many 
years  after,  as  the  Heavy  Court,  and  justly  so,  their 
combined  weight  amounting  to  over  1000  lbs.  No  one 
of  them  weighed  less  than  300  lbs.  One  would  readily 
believe  this  ponderous  body  would  do  things,  and  they 
did. 

As  a  monument  to  their  memory,  stands  the  two 
immense  stone  piers  on  which  rests  the  big  arch  bridge 
spanning  Shoal  Creek,  four  miles  south  of  Cameron. 
The  original  bridge  was  a  heavy  wooden  Howe  truss, 
the  first  of  the  kind  in  the  County  (as  my  memory  goes). 
I  think  it  was  finished  in  the  fall  of  1860,  and  was  dedi- 
cated by  a  big  public  dance.  The  writer  was  at  that 
dance  but  took  no  part,  as  it  seemed  to  him,  it  was  only 
a  harbinger  of  what  was  coming  next  season.  Many  of 
the  young  swains  who  "tripped  the  light  fantastic  toe" 
on  the  new  floor  of  that  bridge,  now  lie  mouldering  on 
some  far  off  battle  field  in  the  sunny  Southland. 

I'll  try  to  call  to  mind  a  few  whom,  I  remember, 
were  there.  Among  many  others,  were  Dr.  and  Mrs. 
King,  and  Allison  Shanks,  Mrs.  King's  brother,  Hiram 
A.  McCartney,  Asher  McCartney,  Uncle  Harry  Parker, 
and  daughters,  Thomas  P.  Jones,  who  afterwards  married 
Miss  Nannie  Parker,  Preston  Lindsay,  who  was  a 
brother  to  the  late  Major  Lindsay,  whose  father,  Richard 
Lindsay,  was  commissioned  by  the  court  to  overlook  the 
building  of  the  bridge.  I  am  not  certain,  but  think  O.  P. 
Newberry  was  there,  Milton  Wigginton,  J.  A.  Calvert 
and  many  others,  a  majority  of  whom,  had  there  been 
two  flags  there  that  day,  as  were  a  year  later,  would  have 
enrolled  under  the  Stars  and  Bars,  in  place  of  the  Flag 
of  our  Union,  as  they  did  six  months  later,  many  of  them 
to  their  sorrow. 


SEVENTY. FIVE   YEARS   ON    THE    BORDER 

If  there  ever  was  a  public  structure  in  Missouri 
built  and  christened  more  devotedly  to  the  "lost  cause" 
than  this  was,  I've  not  heard  of  it.  Many  of  these  gal- 
lant young  bloods  crossed  that  structure  in  a  hurry,  and 
for  the  last  time,  on  a  bright  May  morning  six  months 
later,  to  join  their  Confederates  at  Brooken  School 
neighborhood,  and  that  was  a  very  unhealthy  neighbor- 
hood, too,  for  them  along  about  that  time.  They  had 
waked  up,  by  their  overbearing  attitude  the  Rogers, 
Major  Green  and  many  other  Union  men,  who,  by  this 
time,  were  organized,  so  the  hot  bloods  left  in  a  hurry, 
many  of  them  to  return  no  more,  and  many  a  good,  warm 
hearted  boy  went  with  that  crowd  south  to  fight  for 
their  rights,  and  not  one  in  ten  of  them  owned  as  much 
as  the  odor  of  a  nigger. 

And  this  "Heavy  Court"  left  a  monument  of  stone, 
built  with  public  money,  a  powder  magazine  which  was 
standing  a  few  years  since  (and  probably  is  yet)  be- 
tween the  business  center  of  Plattsburg  and  the  railway 
depots,  in  the  west  part  of  town.  The  idea  was  to  make 
Plattsburg  a  military  storehouse  for  Confederate  sup- 
plies. I  suppose,  taken  altogether,  the  "Heavy  Court" 
did  as  much  good  as  harm. 

As  a  citizen,  Judge  Willis  had  the  reputation  of 
being  an  exemplary  man.  Judge  Coffman  lived  at 
Haynesville,  and  I  knew  but  little  of  him.  I  think  he 
was  one  of  the  original  owners  of  the  town  site  of 
Haynesville.  Judge  Scott  lived  five  miles  south  of  our 
place,  at  the  time  of  which  I  am  writing.  I  heard  him 
make  a  speech  in  Cameron  in  his  campaign.  He  ex- 
claimed, "They  even  charge  me  of  having  religion." 
"My  God,"  he  apostrophized,  "what  would  my  Kentucky 
friends  say  if  they  would  hear  that  accusation."  His 
wife  and  daughter  were  Catholics.  He  justly  claimed 
that  fact  was  no  bar,  under  our  laws,  to  holding  office. 
However,  I  thought  that  was  all  buncomb  to  pull  the 
wool  over  some  people's  eyes.  The  fact  was,  he  was  the 
nominee  of  the  fire  eating  wing  of  the  slavery  Demo- 
crats, and  could  have  been    elected   in    Clinton    County 

35 


SEVENTY-FIVE    YEARS   ON    THE    BORDER 

— «»  — — — i — ————____—_ _______ — 

at  that  time  as  such,  had  he  been  a  representative  of 
Ghenghis  Kahn  or  Adbel  Alcader.  However,  this  pon- 
derous Judge  had  a  gleam  of  poetry,  or  romance,  in  his 
make  up,  and  must  some  time,  in  early  life,  have  read 
"The  Lady  of  the  Lake" ;  they  named  their  boy,  "Walter 
Scott".     It  might  have  been  at  Mrs.  Scott's  suggestion. 

And  now  I've  come  to  the  last,  the  six  foot  tall, 
slender  Miss  Mariah  Scott.  She  was  not  quite  as  tall  as 
her  father,  nor  did  she  have  the  ponderous  avoirdupois 
of  her  worthy  sire.  She  was  the  reigning  belle  of  that 
bridge  dance,  and  it  looked  awfully  dangerous  the  way 
she  slung  herself  and  those  young  Confederates  around 
on  that  high  bridge  that  day.  I  suppose,  however,  she 
was  only  aiming  to  get  the  boys  used  to  danger,  and  well 
she  might.  I  can  think  of  not  more  than  one  or  two  of 
those  who  went  south  in  such  a  hurry  that  bright  May 
morning  who  ever  returned.  Among  those  that  went 
was  Anderson  Franklin,  a  good  hearted  fellow,  who  was 
a  brother  of  Ben  Franklin  of  Kansas  City,  who  was  a 
prominent  lawyer  for  many  years,  and  was,  in  President 
Cleveland's  administration,  appointed  as  Minister  to  one 
of  the  South  American  Republics,  and  later  on,  Governor 
of  Arizona  Territory.  I  have  had  recently  a  letter  from 
one  of  his  sons. 

However,  this  is  only  one  among  thousands  of  other 
like  incidents  in  '61. 


CHAPTER  16. 


HOW  A  LYNX  LOOKS. 
About  40  years  ago,  I  was  going  for  Dr.  Scott,  who 
lived  five  miles  south  of  our  place  on  a  place  now  owned 
by  Mr.  John  Estep.  I  went  by  the  old  Burkhart  place 
and  aimed  to,  and  did  finally,  cross  Shoal  Creek  just 
above  where  a  tall  steel  bridge  spans  the  stream  one-half 
mile  northwest  of  the  Henderson  farm,  at  the  old  Isaac 
D.  Baldwin  Ford.  I  was  riding  at  the  time  that  spirited 
black  horse,  "old  Sam"  which  was  the  best  horse  I  ever 


SEVENTY. FIVE   YEARS   ON    THE   BORDER 

owned,  and  I  think  the  best  horse  for  everything  a 
horse  is  used  for  which  was  ever  produced  in  Clinton 
County.  He  lived  to  the  great  age  of  34  years,  and  then 
was  shot  as  a  merciful  ending  of  his  useful  life. 

When  I  came  to  the  north  bank  of  the  creek  and 
started  down,  about  half  way  to  the  water  at  once  Sam 
stopped  short,  gave  a  snort,  whirling  around  so  suddenly 
that  I  came  near  being  unbalanced  and  thrown  off.  I 
reined  him  up  as  quickly  as  I  could,  and  looked  in  the 
direction  of  the  crossing  to  ascertain  what  had  scared 
Sam  so  badly.  The  horse  still  violently  trembled  with 
fright  so  it  was  about  all  I  could  do  to  hold  him. 

Just  a  yard  or  so  above  where  the  road  came  down 
into  the  creek  from  the  south  side,  in  a  little  bunch  of 
willow  bushes,  I  saw  a  strange  looking  little  animal 
which  I  took  to  be  a  large  fist  dog,  but  still  the  little  vil- 
lainous looking  thing  didn't  look  much  like  a  dog.  It 
had  such  fearfully  bright,  wild  looking  eyes,  and  sharp 
ears  sticking  straight  up  with  their  tips  turned  down. 
The  horse  was  so  badly  frightened  I  hardly  knew  what 
to  think  of  the  "varmint,"  especially  when  I  called  "dog," 
then  yelled  at  the  top  of  my  voice  calling  and  sicking 
dog.  There  the  little  villain  sat  still  staring  me  in  the 
face,  so  I  concluded  to  make  a  charge  on  him,  if  I  pos- 
sibly could  get  Sam  to  face  him  on  a  charge. 

Going  to  the  top  of  the  bank,  I  reined  up  my  charger. 
I  put  spurs  to  Sam  whooping  and  yelling  like  a  Com- 
anche Indian.  I  bore  down  on  him,  waiving  my  hat. 
All  this  noise  didn't  seem  to  disconcert  him  a  bit. 
However,  he  trotted,  or  kind  of  jumped,  along  up  on 
top  of  a  high  knoll,  or  end  of  a  little  ridge,  and  there 
he  sat,  for  all  the  yelling  I  could  do.  I  left  him  there 
wondering  whether  he  was  a  dog  or  wild  animal. 

I  rode  on  up  to  Mr.  Henderson's  and,  seeing  him  at 
his  barn,  told  him  of  what  I'd  seen  down  at  the  creek, 
and  asked  him  if  he  had  such  looking  dog.  He  said  he 
had  a  small  like  dog,  but  nothing  like  the  animal  I  had 
described. 

37 


SEVENTY. FIVE    YEARS    ON    THE    BORDER 

I  studied  about  that  vicious  looking  animal  which 
scared  Sam  so  badly  a  good  deal,  but  later  on  the  mys- 
tery was  solved.  Several  other  people  had  seen  this 
strange  customer;  one  of  them  was  Davis  Duncan,  my 
neighbor,  who  went  out  one  morning  with  a  bridle  to 
get  a  horse  up  which  was  running  loose  in  the  woods, 
as  all  stock  did  at  that  time.  He  was  going  along  a 
path,  he  said,  when  at  once  a  little  dark  colored  animal 
reared  up  behind  a  little  log  not  far  ahead  of  him  with 
such  sparkling,  wild  looking  eyes  that  it  frightened  him 
for  an  instant.  He  looked  at  it  and  it  steadfastly  gazed 
at  him,  and  would  not  and  did  not,  move,  but  he  did.  He 
said  the  little  villain  looked  as  though  it  had  a  notion 
of  springing  on  to  him,  and  he  had  nothing  to  defend 
himself  with,  but  the  bridle,  or  his  hands.  He  told  me 
he  never  would  have  said  anything  about  the  incident 
in  the  woods,  had  not  the  story  I  am  telling  been  made 
public  later  on. 

Awhile  after  these  occurrences,  an  uncle  of  mine, 
"Uncle  Bill  Williams/'  and  John  and  Jos.  Frederick  and 
probably  others,  were  out  hunting.  At  that  time  there 
were  a  few  deer  left,  and  one  could  be  scared  up  by  dogs 
occasionally.  These  parties  had  along  a  lot  of  dogs,  and 
were  not  a  great  distance  from  where  Pleasant  Grove 
Church  and  school  house  are  now,  which  are  about  four 
miles  west  of  the  old  Mormon  town,  Far  West.  After 
ranging  around  quite  a  while,  the  dogs  struck  a  hot  trail ; 
away  they  went,  yelling,  the  men  after  them,  when,  sud- 
denly, they  brought  something  to  bay,  and  it  appeared 
from  the  noise  and  yelling  of  the  dogs  that  they  were 
seemingly  hurt.  The  men  came  up  and  saw  some  cat- 
like animal  which  would  make  a  terrific  spring  at  a  dog 
and  make  him  howl,  by  a  stroke  of  his  fish  hook  pointed 
claws.  The  men  waited  for  a  lull  in  the  scrimmage  when 
one  of  them  shot  and  killed  dead,  a  lynx,  and  the  dogs 
skirmished  around  and  routed  another,  the  mate  of  the 
one  already  killed,  and  killed  it  also. 

These  two  are  the  only  lynxes  (family  of  cats,  or 


SEVENTY-FIVE   YEARS    ON    THE    BORDER 

panthers),  which  have  been  seen,  or  killed,  that  I  know 
of  since  I've  been  in  the  county. 

In  this  connection,  I  further  add  that  I  learned 
something  about  the  habits  of  the  lynx  about  25  years 
ago  from  my  Uncle  Charles  Williams,  while  in  Oregon 
visiting  with  him  at  his  mountain  cabin  in  the  foot-hills 
of  the  Santiam  river  country.  He  was  a  backwoodsman 
for  many  years  in  the  vast  fir  and  cedar  forests  of  the 
foothill  country  of  the  east  side  of  the  Williamette  Val- 
ley, and  had  a  great  deal  of  experience  with  the  wild 
animals,  natives  of  that  vast  timbered  waste. 

He  said  the  lynx  would  skulk  along  on  the  trail  of  a 
man,  hunter  or  trapper,  for  half  a  day  at  a  time,  and  no 
one  knew  why.  They  did  it  more  out  of  their  curiosity  as 
they  had  never  been  known  to  spring  on  to  any  man. 
He  thought  probably  they  followed  for  the  offal  of  deer, 
or  other  game  killed  by  the  hunters,  and  trappers,  said 
he  had  killed  many  a  one  of  the  little  villains  when  he 
found  they  were  on  his  trail,  which  was  detected  by 
hiding  behind  the  immense  fir  logs  lying  in  every  direc- 
tion in  those  big  woods.  They'd  rear  up  behind  those 
logs  to  look  at  him ;  he'd  lie  still  and  they'd  keep  coming 
closer  until  they'd  get  near  enough,  then  he'd  shoot  them 
in  the  head  when  they  reared  it  above  the  log  they  were 
behind. 

One  who  has  never  seen  those  big  trees  and  logs 
will  hardly  believe  it,  when  told  that  one  could  not  walk 
five  miles  in  that  big  woods  in  a  day  to  save  his  life,  if 
he  had  to  follow  a  certain  point  of  the  compass.  I  re- 
member remarking,  while  on  the  ship  going  up  the  Col- 
umbia river  and  seeing  the  great  fir  forest,  that  I'd  like 
to  be  out  there  and  take  a  tramp  of  a  few  miles.  A  man 
standing  by  said,  "Did  you  ever  try  that  feat?"  I  said 
"No,  but  intend  to  when  I  get  up  in  the  Willamette  Val- 
ley." He  said,  "You'll  know  more  after  you  try  it.  I'll 
tell  you  that  you  can't  walk  five  miles  in  a  straight  line 
in  a  day  for  your  life."    I  did  know  more,  and  found 


SEVENTY-FIVE    YEARS    ON    THE    BORDER 

where  there  were  no  paths  cut,  and  logs  burned  out  of 
the  path,  I  couldn't  walk  half  of  five  miles. 

Lots  of  those  old  logs  are  more  than  100  feet  long 
and  so  big,  to  get  on  one  of  them,  one  has  to  go  nearly 
to  their  top,  which  is  generally  broken  off  and  from  two 
to  three  feet  high  at  the  little  end,  with  sometimes  two 
or  three  others  just  as  big  ones  piled  acros>  ihe  one 
you  are  trying  to  get  across,  and  the  whole  covered  with 
a  dense  growth  of  vine  raspberry  with  vines  20  to  40 
feet  long,  and  a  perfect  mat,  in  many  instances  hiding 
the  log  and  ground,  and  if  you  see  a  little  open  place 
with  no  logs  or  trees  covered  with  those  vines,  try  to  go 
across  it  and  you'll  likely  go  in  a  hole  up  to  your  neck, 
where  some  old  stump  has  been  burned,  and  frequently 
a  great  hole  like  a  caved-in  cellar  is  run  into  covered  with 
the  raspberry  vines,  and  those  vines  have  the  finest  little 
berries  imaginable.  These  big,  cellar-like  holes  are 
where,  one  day  long  past,  a  big  tree  has  toppled  over 
with  its  great,  wide  spread  roots,  which  ran  out  from 
the  stump  in  all  directions  and  carried  the  dirt  with 
them,  which  the  rains  of  winter  wash  gradually  off,  and 
they  are  either  burned,  or  decay  with  the  log,  and  the 
dirt  lies  piled  up  by  the  side  of  the  hole  like  it  had  been 
shoveled  out. 

I've  seen  those  big  roots  on  recently  toppled  over 
fir  trees,  which  lay  up  on  their  edges  fully  25  feet  to  the 
top  edge.  It  is  almost  useless  for  one  to  tell  people, 
who  have  never  been  in  those  great  fir  and  redwood 
forests  of  the  Pacific  Coast  how  they  look.  Plenty  of 
those  millions  of  decaying  old  logs  would  have  made 
20,000  feet  of  clear  lumber,  and  are  as  useless  as  are  the 
millions  of  gold  coin  in  the  bottom  of  the  ocean. 


CHAPTER  17. 


STEEL  PLOW  FACTORIES  IN  ST.  JOSEPH. 
It  seems  a  little  strange  that  there  were  two,  well 
equipped  (for  that  day),  steel  plow  factories  in  the  bust- 


H 


SEVENTY-FIVE   YEARS   ON    THE    BORDER 

ling  little  city  of  St.  Joseph,  sixty  years  ago.  The  style 
of  one  was,  Carter  &  Thomas,  the  other,  Aquail  J.  Mor- 
row. They  both  made  the  newly  invented  Peoria 
pattern  of  all  steel  plows.  While  the  mold  boards  were 
not  of  3-ply,  rolled  together  steel,  as  at  present,  to  my 
notion  they  were  better,  but  would  not  scour  in  a  good 
many  gravelly  soils.  I've  done  as  good  work  with  one 
of  those  A.  J.  Morrow  Peoria  plows  as  I've  ever  done 
with  any  of  the  more  modern  makes. 

In  the  spring,  I  think  it  was  of  1852,  Mr.  John  Snow, 
and  Mr.  John  Pawley  had  ordered  two  18-inch  plows 
with  the  long  steel  mold  boards  and  long,  big,  wooden 
beams,  which  were  used  in  breaking  the  very  tough 
prairie  sod  at  that  time.  It  took  from  four  to  six  yoke 
of  oxen  to  draw  one  of  these  big  plows  through  the 
prairie  sod,  and  one  could  hear  the  cracking  noise  of 
shoestring  roots  (there  is  nothing  now  left  of  that  shoe- 
string weed,  or  plant  since  the  prairie  sod  has  disap- 
peared). 

Messrs.  Pawley  and  Snow  hired  me  and  Mr.  Simon 
Kariker,  an  uncle  of  Wallace  Kariker,  to  take  my  team 
and  go  for  the  plows.  It  was  about  the  first  of  May 
and  a  very  wet  spring,  creeks  up  bank  full  a  good  part 
of  the  time,  with  very  few  bridges  on  the  smaller  creeks. 
It  commenced  to  rain  on  us  about  the  time  we  struck  the 
Castile  creek  timber  at  Mr.  Pickett's  place,  about  a  mile 
east  of  where  Stewartsville  is  now.  We  stopped  awhile 
in  a  shed  at  Pickett's,  and  when  it  slacked  a  little,  we 
struck  out.  Soon  it  commenced  to  rain  again,  but  we 
drove  on  crossing  Castile  and  little  Third  Fork  a  mile 
or  so  beyond.  It  still  rained  and  we  were  dripping  wet, 
but  some  good  people  took  us  in  for  the  night. 

Having  gotten  dry  and  being  rested,  with  a  good 
warm  breakfast,  we  started  for  St.  Joseph.  On  driving 
down  to  a  little,  but  very  long,  creek,  called  Muddy,  we 
found  it  bank  full,  so  we  had  to  drive  five  miles  out  of 
our  way  to  a  shaky,  wooden  bridge,  and  we  didn't  reach 
St.  Joseph  that  evening,  staying  not  far    from    where 

41 


SEVENTY. FIVE    YEARS    ON    THE    BORDER 

« 

Saxton  is  now.  Next  morning  we  got  to  the  city  about 
ten  o'clock,  and  loaded  the  two  big  plows  with  beams 
as  long  as  our  little,  old  wagon  box,  and  the  inevitable 
salt;  two  sacks  salt  was  always  one  of  the  things  which 
had  to  come,  it  mattered  not  what  else  was  left,  when  a 
wagon  went  to  any  Missouri  river  town  before  railway 
days. 

We  got  off  about  noon  and  got  out  across  that  muddy 
creek  which  had  given  us  so  much  trouble  on  the  trip 
out.  We  stayed  the  second  night  with  the  same  people 
who  had  kept  us  as  we  went  in. 

It  looked  ominous  the  next  morning,  and  we  hurried 
to  the  Third  Fork  to  cross  on  an  old  shaky  bridge.  After 
crossing  it,  it  began  to  rain  again,  so  we  took  out  the 
hind  gate  of  the  wagon  to  cover  the  precious  cargo  of 
salt,  and  drove  wearily  on.  However,  we'd  gotten 
"kinder"  used  to  it.  We  had  to  go  down  south  out  of 
the  way  several  miles  to  a  bridge  on  little  Third  Fork. 
When  we  came  near  to  it,  we  found  the  bottom  nearly 
covered  with  water.  I  didn't  like  the  appearance  of  the 
depth  indicated  by  the  brush  and  bushes  in  what  looked 
like  a  slough  between  us  and  the  bridge.  I  told  my  part- 
ner I  was  not  going  into  that  ugly  looking  current  until 
I  had  tested  its  depth.  So  we  unhitched  the  horses  and 
took  the  harness  off  of  one  that  I  knew  was  a  good  swim- 
mer, and  I  took  some  of  my  own  harness  and  shoes  off 
also. 

I  bounced  the  horse  and  put  in  to  that  muddy,  ugly 
looking  slough,  and  had  not  gone  ten  yards  till  the  horse 
floated  off  and  swam  across  the  slough,  the  swimming 
water  being  some  20  yards  wide,  by  the  look  of  the  un- 
dergrowth in  the  open  timber.  I  finally  found  a  way 
where  the  water  did  not  come  up  to  our  salt,  and  hitched 
up  and  drove  down  by  the  trees  that  I  spotted  as  marks 
of  safety,  and  finally  crossed  without  further  risk,  and 
we  drove  on  through  mud  and  water  to  Mr.  Clark's,  who 
then  lived  not  far  from  a  new  wooden  bridge  across 
Castile  Creek,  near  where  Stewartsville  now  is. 


SEVENTY-FIVE   YEARS    ON    THE    BORDER 

It  rained  nearly  all  night,  and  the  next  morning  was 
Sunday.  It  quit  raining  about  8  o'clock.  The  new 
bridge  had  no  approaches  and  was  about  five  feet  high 
square  up  to  the  floor.  Mr.  Clark  kindly  went  down 
with  us  to  the  creek,  and  found  it  bank  full.  Clark  said 
it  was  out  of  the  question  to  try  to  get  on  to  the  bridge 
I  took  a  look  at  the  surroundings,  and  decided  to  take  the 
wagon  to  pieces  and  carry  it  across  piece  by  piece,  which 
we  did,  and  put  it  together  on  the  east  side  of  the  bridge. 
Carrying  the  wagon  box  over  was  a  job  to  get  it  up  on 
and  down  off,  then  on  to  the  running  gear  of  the  wagon, 
then  those  big  plows  and  heavy  salt  sacks,  then  the  har- 
ness. 

The  road  ran  into  the  creek  above,  and  came  out 
below  the  bridge.  Kariker  and  I  bounced  on  to  the 
horses,  I  leading,  into  the  foaming  current  under  the 
bridge,  like  a  dart  and  luckily,  hit  the  landing  place  all 
right.  I  neglected  to  mention  that  we  didn't  have  many 
clothes  on  when  we  went  under  that  bridge. 

We  dragged  along  all  day  heading  the  little  creeks 
and  branches,  having  to  leave  the  wagon  trail  and  go 
out  on  the  prairie  into  soft,  slushy  gopher  hills,  the  horses 
sinking  to  their  fetlocks  at  every  step,  and  the  wagon 
cutting  through  the  soft  sod.  We,  at  last,  after  five  days 
of  rain  and  drudgery,  got  home,  and  I  think  I  got  six 
dollars  for  my  services  with  team  and  wagon. 

The  first  job  that  Mr.  Snow  did  with  that  big  prairie 
breaking  plow  was  for  Mr.  William  Henry,  a  few  miles 
north  of  the  present  site  of  Cameron,  and  I'll  venture  to 
guess,  Judge  Henry  will  remember  it,  as  well  as  he  does 
the  dance  at  Mike  Moore's  in  war  time. 


CHAPTER  18. 


O.  H.  P.  NEWBERRY. 
The  first  time  I  remember  seeing  the    late    Major 
Newberry  was  at  a  little  Fourth  of  July  picnic,  held  in  a 
grove  on  the  place  later  owned  and  improved  by  the  late 


43 


SEVENTY-FIVE    YEARS    ON    THE    BORDER 

M  — — — — — -^—— —— — — — ^ — - — 

Hiram  Gorrell,  one  mile  north  of  my  home,  Midway 
Place.  He  had  the  beautiful  young  Lizzie  McCorkle  in 
his  charge  that  day,  and  later  on  married  her.  She  is 
living  yet  and  is  one  of  three  who  were  here  when  I  first 
came  to  the  county  with  my  parents  seventy  years  since. 
Major  Newberry  first  came  here  with  the  corps  of  engi- 
neers and  helped  in  all  the  surveying  details  while  the 
Hannibal  &  St.  Joseph  Ry.  was  being  constructed.  He 
was  generous  to  a  fault.  I  remember.  At  that  little 
picnic  he  had  lots  of  good  things  to  eat  including  a  basket 
of  champagne  of  which  he  invited  everybody  to  partake. 

Among  other  accomplishments  he  was  a  fairly  good 
lawyer  in  Common  Law,  but  never  to  my  knowledge 
practiced  much  in  the  courts.  He  was  patriotic,  and 
when  the  great  Civil  War  broke  out  he  volunteered,  and 
was  with  Col.  Mulligan  while  he  was  beleaguered  and 
surrounded  by  the  overwhelming  force  of  General  Price 
at  Lexington,  Mo.,  and  was  there  credited  with  a  heroic 
deed  that  should  go  down  to  coming  generations.  The 
siege  was  being  pushed  by  the  Confederates,  who  rolled 
lines  of  hemp  bales,  which  were  shot-proof  for  any  guns 
that  Mulligan  had  within  his  entrenched  camp.  These 
bales  they  would  roll  in  unison,  forming  a  good  movable 
breast  work  and  when  near  enough  would  throw  hand 
grenade  shells  with  burning  fuse  over  into  the  Union 
ranks. 

On  one  occasion  a  loaded  bomb  came  over  the  earth 
works  with  burning  fuse  fizzing,  and  fell  among  the  sol- 
diers lying  in  the  trenches.  Quick  as  thought  the  brave 
Newberry  grabbed  the  death  dealing  missile  and  hurled 
it  back  over  both  breast  works,  where  it  burst  over  the 
heads  of  those  who  sent  it. 

I  think  this  heroic  act  worthy  to  go  down  to  genera- 
tions yet  unborn  side  by  side  with  that  of  Sergeant 
Jasper  at  historic  Fort  Moultry. 

Major  Newberry  was  a  near  relative  of  Postmaster 
Newberry  of  Chicago,  under  Mr.  Cleveland's  administra- 
tion, who  was  founder  of  the  great  Newberry  Library 


SEVENTY-FIVE   YEARS    ON    THE    BORDER 

in  that  great  city,  and  who  at  his  death  left  a  large  legacy 
to  the  heirs  of  the  Major,  including  his  wife  and  her 
children,  one  of  whom  was  the  wife  of  the  late  Frank 
Darby,  father  of  the  genial  Walter,  of  the  Darby  Auto- 
mobile Co.  No  nicer  or  more  accommodating  young 
business  man  in  Cameron  than  Walter  Darby  to  whom 
I  am  under  obligations  for  past  favors. 

JAMES  WILLIAMS. 


CHAPTER  19. 


PRICE  HARLAN. 

While  W.  P.  Harlan  was  not  among  the  first  settlers 
of  Shoal  Township,  he  was  nevertheless  here  in  a  very 
early  day.  Having  settled  on  the  place  adjoining  my 
home,  Midway  Place,  in  the  year  of  1840,  and  lived  there 
until  his  death,  about  30  years  since.  I  was  intimately 
acquainted  with  him  as  he  was  our  nearest  neighbor  for 
many  years. 

Price  Harlan  was  a  man  of  strong  convictions  and 
sterling  integrity.  No  one  was  ever  asked  to  vouch  for 
what  he  said  he  knew  to  be  a  fact,  or  for  what  he  agreed 
to  do.  He  was  always  on  the  side  of  the  weak  and  poor 
and  was  not  afraid  to  say  so. 

He  was  the  best  farmer  in  the  neighborhood  while 
he  was  young  and  could  do  his  own  work.  Having 
raised  a  large  family  of  girls  in  later  years,  IVe  heard 
him  complain  that  his  hired  men  had  allowed  cockle- 
burrs  to  get  started  on  his  farm.  He  always  kept  a 
flock  of  sheep  and  was  always  a  deadly  enemy  of  cockle 
burrs  and  mongrel  yellow  dogs. 

Price  Harlan  was  the  first  Woman  Suffragist  that  I 
can  remember  of,  having  always  claimed  that  my  mother, 
a  widow  who  had  children  to  educate,  should  have  a 
right  to  vote  at  our  school  meetings.  He  helped  to  build 
the  first  public  school  house  in  the  township  and  I  think 
about  the  first  in  Clinton  County.  He  was  the  most  ex- 
pert man  with  a  common  chopping  axe  that  I  ever  knew. 

45 


SEVENTY. FIVE   YEARS   ON    THE    BORDER 

We  thought  if  wc  could  do  anything  as  well  as  Uncle 
Price  that  was  good  enough.  He  could  run  a  corn  row 
furrow  with  a  single  horse  and  a  single  line  across  a 
forty  acre  field,  that  I  verily  believe  a  line  stretched  taut 
would  center  the  furrow  its  entire  length.  I  covered 
corn,  with  a  hoe  three  days  after  him  when  I  was  17 
years  old  for  25  cents  a  day.  I  promised  myself  after 
that  experience  that  I'd  never  hire  out  again  and  I've 
kept  that  promise.  Another  boy  and  I  had  covered  about 
10  acres  each  day  and  our  hands  were  blistered  by  the 
time  we  had  finished  the  job. 

In  a  very  early  day  Mr.  Harlan  donated  a  tract  of 
land  for  a  public  cemetery,  and  within  the  last  decade 
one  of  his  daughters,  Mrs.  Frances  Park,  has  added 
another  acre  to  her  father's  gift  and  this  cemetery  now 
is  known  as  the  W.  P.  Harlan  Cemetery  in  which  I  ex- 
pect before  long  will  be  my  final  resting  place.  Mr. 
Harlan  helped  bury  the  first  person  in  this  grave  yard 
and  probably  more  of  his  neighbors  than  any  one  will 
gratuitously. 

By  frugality,  industry  and  perseverance  Mr.  Harlan 
accumulated  what  would  these  days  be  quite  a  little 
fortune  as  it  goes  with  farmers. 

I  might  write  a  quire  of  paper  and  not  begin  to 
enumerate  his  many  good  traits.  If  he  had  bad  traits 
they  were  few  and  harmless  and  we  will  let  them  rest  in 
oblivion.  He  was  a  consistent  member  of  the  Baptist 
church  for  many  years  prior  to  his  death.  To  sum  up  I 
think  this  neighborhood  is  better  by  the  example  set  by 
Price  Harlan. 

James  Williams. 
Mid-way  Place,  Sept.  5th,  '11. 

HOW  DREAR  TO  THIS  HEART. 

How  drear  to  this  heart  are  some  scenes  of  my  childhood, 
When  dim  recollection  brings  them  to  view; 
No  orchard,  no  meadow,  but  prairie  and  wildwood, 
And  hunting  and  fishing  we  all  liked  to  do. 

40 


SEVENTY. FIVE   YEARS   ON    THE   BORDER 


The  good  housewives  wishing  for  winter  reserves, 
Used  grapes,  plums  and  crab  apples  for  honey  preserves, 
With  plenty  of  cabbage  and  also  potatoes, 
♦They  stewed  up  in  honey  lots  of  tomatoes. 

Having  no  place  these  good  things  to  store, 
They'd  dig  a  deep  hole  under  the  floor; 
Under  the  bed  they'd  have  a  trap  door; 
A  small  boy  they'd  send  down  in  this  hole 
Of  African  darkness  (a  terror  to  his  soul). 

He  didn't  like  to  go;  mamma  said  he  must; 
On  coming  to  the  light  was  covered  with  dust; 
He  didn't  like  often  to  perform  this  feat, 
But  always  brought  up  good  things  to  eat. 

Yours  truly, 
James  Williams,  Dec.  25,  1911. 
♦Fruit  jars  had  not  been  invented  then. 


CHAPTER  20. 


GOING  TO  MILL  SIXTY-THREE  YEARS  AGO. 

Every  old  settler  knows  it  was  a  job  to  get  wheat 
ready  for  the  mill,  but  it  was  a  bigger  job  to  get  it  made 
into  flour  fit  for  bread.  Just  imagine,  my  young  farmer 
friends,  plowing  your  ground  with  a  wooden  mould 
board  plow  that  would  no  more  scour  than  a  black  oak 
log  dragged  down  the  road,  then  sowing  seed  by  hand 
and  covering  with  wooden  tooth  harrow,  or  dragging  a 
big  crab  apple  brush  to  cover  it  in  the  dry  clods,  and 
leaving  it  for  rain  and  the  virgin  soil  to  do  the  rest,  and 
if  it  rained,  we  usually  got  some  wheat ;  if  we  had  snow, 
when  the  grain  began  to  get  in  a  stiff  dough,  we'd  cut  it 
by  hand  with  a  grain  cradle.  I've  cut  many  an  acre  of 
wheat  and  oats  and  bound  it  by  hand.  My,  how  sore 
our  hands  would  get  binding  bearded  wheat.  We'd  then 
stack  in  a  circle  so  we  could  put  it  on  the  ground  in  a 
circle  and  put  horses  on  it  and  ride  them  around  in  a 
circle  on  it.  We  called  this  operation  tramping  out 
wheat. 

We  kept  stirring  and  turning  the  straw  until  about 

47 


SEVENTY. FIVE    YEARS    ON    THE    BORDER 



two-thirds  of  the  wheat  was  on  the  ground.  Some  few 
had  plank  put  down,  but  those  plank  floors  were  few 
and  far  between.  We  would  use  wooden  forks  and 
home  made  clumsy  hand  rakes  to  get  as  much  of  the 
straw  out  as  possible.  Then,  we'd  rake  it  in  a  big  pile, 
chaff  and  wheat,  and  use  an  old  clumsy  wheat  fan  to  clean 
it.  When  ready  for  the  mill,  it  usually  had  about  five  per 
cent,  or  more,  of  grit,  sand  and  dirt  in  it,  and  our  little, 
old  horse  power  mill,  having  no  smut  or  other  cleaning 
machinery,  one  can  imagine  how  the  flour  looked  when 
baked  in  bread.  It  was  a  fearful  thing  on  teeth  with  all 
that  sand  in  it,  but  it  was  a  ground  hog  case;  we  had  to 
eat  it. 

In  those  old  sweep  power  horse  mills,  we'd  use  two 
or  four  horses,  and  grind  about  six  bushels  with  two,  or 
ten  to  twelve  bushels  with  four  horses  in  eight  to  ten 
hours.  We  didn't  bolt  it  at  same  operation  of  grinding. 
We  took  it  up  in  a  measure  of  some  kind,  carried  it  up 
a  split  pole  ladder  with  round  rungs  for  steps,  put  it  on 
top  in  a  big  box  that  they  called  a  "bolting  'chist'  ", 
which  was  10  to  16  feet  long,  with  a  nicely  made  reel 
covered  with  fine  silken  gauze  first  two-thirds  of  its 
length,  and  a  coarser  cloth  for  shorts,  the  bran  coming 
out  at  open  back  end  of  bolt.  I  think  that  all  modern 
bolting  machinery  of  the  present  day,  is  made  on  about 
the  same  principle  of  those  old  time  bolting  reels  turned 
by  hand  with  a  crank.  A  knocking  device  was  attached 
to  jar  the  flour  and  keep  it  from  clogging  the  bolting 
cloth. 

We  had  some  wheat  the  year  my  father  died.  We 
took  a  little  more  pains  in  keeping  the  grit  and  dirt  out 
of  it  than  usual.  I  wanted  a  little  better  flour  than  we 
could  get  on  the  old  horse  mills  with  hand  bolting  ma- 
chinery. To  get  this  better  grade  of  flour,  we  had  to  go 
*o  Platte  River  in  Platte  County,  about  fifteen  miles 
west  of  Plattsburg,  nearly  thirty  miles  from  home,  a  hard 
day's  drive  in  short  winter  days.  I  think,  a  Kentucky 
man  by  the  name  of  James  Estill,  and  his  partner,  whose 
name  was,  I  believe,  Mr.  Bates,  had  built  a  good  modern 

48 


SEVENTY. FIVE   YEARS   ON    THE    BORDER 

equipped  (for  that  day)  water  power  saw  and  grist,  corn 
and  wheat  burrs,  with  all  the  machinery  and  ample 
power  to  drive  it  a  good  portion  of  the  year.  This  mill 
made  flour  at  that  early  day  that  I  think  was  better  than 
our  modern  roller  flour.  Their  machinery  would  clean 
the  grain  of  all  impurities,  and  that  was  my  reason  for 
deciding  to  go  there  for  our  winters  "grinding",  as  we 
called  it. 

So,  about  the  middle  of  December,  1848,  one  very 
cold  morning,  I  loaded  7  or  8  bushels  of  wheat,  and  about 
10  bushels  of  corn  shelled  by  hand;  we  had  never  heard 
of  a  corn  sheller,  either  hand  or  power.  I  took  along 
feed  for  team  and  some  cooked  stuff  to  eat,  and  one  or 
two  old  quilts  to  keep  me  from  freezing,  as  it  was  quite 
cold  that  morning,  and  got  colder  and  colder  the  whole 
day.  I  arrived  at  the  mill  about  nightfall.  It  was  an 
awful  cold  place  to  keep  my  horses  tied  to  the  wagon; 
however,  I  did  the  best  I  could  for  them  in  finding  a 
little  shelter  from  the  piercing  cold  northeast  wind,  and 
fed  them  a  good  feed  of  corn  and  sheaf  oats,  which  we 
used  in  place  of  hay,  and  it  was  a  good  substitute,  too. 
I  went  in,  after  getting  my  grain  in  the  mill,  to  a  fire 
in  the  corn  mill  house  with  loose  6  inch  boards  for  floor, 
and  about  8  or  10  feet  above  the  icy  cold  water.  That 
little  stove  had  about  as  much  effect  on  warming  that 
good,  big,  open  room  as  an  Owl  cigar  of  this  day  would 
have  on  a  good,  big  bed  room  on  a  cold  night. 

I  had  some  frozen  corn  bread  and  hog  meat,  and 
made  a  little  black  coffee,  but  couldn't  get  the  stuff  hot 
enough  to  more  than  thaw  half  way  through  till  I  com- 
menced eating,  as  I  had  not  eaten  much  of  the  frozen 
meat  and  bread  on  the  cold  prairie.  It  was  about  all  I 
could  do  to  drive  the  team  and  keep  from  freezing.  I  had 
no  overshoes,  but  had  on  a  pair  of  very  tight  fitting 
boots,  the  best  things  on  earth  to  freeze  one's  feet  in, 
and  they  and  that  zero  weather  did  the  business  for  mine 
on  that  trip;  they  are  paining  me  now,  this  sixty- three 
years  after. 

My  gentle  readers,  allow  me  to  pause  and  tell  you  a 


SEVENTY-FIVE    YEARS    ON    THE    BORDER 

tragic  story.  Mr.  James  Estill,  the  owner  of  the  mill  (as 
I  was  told  within  the  last  two  years  by  a  very  old  man 
who  lived  near  Westport  then,  but  lived  in  the  neighbor- 
hood of  Estill's  Mills,  at  the  time  of  which  I  am  writing, 
and  for  many  years,  called  the  Union  Mills,  had  some 
difficulty  (as  I  understood  my  Westport  informant)  with 
his  partner,  and  they  finally  agreed  to  fight  it  out  on  the 
"Field  of  Honor",  agreeing  that  a  negro  man  should  im- 
partially load  the  guns,  they  casting  lots  for  choice  of 
guns.  As  I  understood  it,  that  negro  was  the  only  wit- 
ness to  the  tragedy,  however,  I  am  not  certain  about  this. 
At  any  rate,  they  met  and  Estill  killed  his  opponent, 
as  I,  and  everybody  at  that  time  knew.  I  remember  that 
the  public  censured  Mr.  Estill,  whether  justly  so  or  not. 
The  Estill  Flats,  I  was  told  by  my  informant,  which  are 
located  just  west  of  the  new  Coates  House  in  Kansas 
City,  were  built  by  a  brother  of  James  Estill,  owner  of 
the  big  mill  on  Platte  River. 

The  negro,  who  I  was  told  loaded  the  guns,  was 
miller  in  the  corn  mill.  He  had  a  cot  and  offered  to1 
share  it  with  me  that  awful  night  telling  me  I'd  freeze  if 
I  tried  to  sleep  on  that  cold  floor,  and  I  would  have 
frozen;  that  night  is  the  only  one  of  my  life  I  ever  slept 
with  a  nigger.    I  bless  him  to  this  day. 

An  old  acquaintance  and  friend  of  my  parents,  whom 
I  knew  quite  well,  whose  name  was  Joshua  DeHart,  who 
at  that  time,  I  think,  lived  in  De  Kalb  County  near  old 
Victoria  over  the  line  in  Daviess  County,  was  at  the 
mill  that  cold  night  and  helped  me,  as  I  was  a  boy  then, 
to  take  care  of  my  team.  The  millers  ground  our  grists 
that  night.  Practical  millers  say  that  water  has  more 
power  in  night  than  daytime.  Mr.  DeHart  had  a  cold 
from  sleeping  that  night  on  that  cold  floor.  He  did  not 
sleep  much,  he  said,  so  was  up  long  before  day  looking 
after  our  teams;  he  fed  mine  as  well.  Coming  into  the 
mill,  he  told  us  a  fearful  snow  storm  was  raging  outside, 
which  was  true.  In  the  75  years  I've  lived  in  Western 
Missouri,  I've  not  seen  any  deeper  one,  and  never  saw 
one  that  lay  as  long  without  thawing.    My  feet  are  sore 


SEVENTY-FIVE   YEARS   ON    THE    BORDER 

to  this  day  from  freezing  that  terrible  winter.  One  thing 
made  it  appear  so  awfully  cold  was,  we  were  so  illy  pre- 
pared to  withstand  the  cold. 

After  a  warm  breakfast  of  black  coffee,  fried  pork 
and  warmed  over  bread,  loading  our  grists,  we  (Mr.  De- 
Hart  and  I)  started  home  as  daylight  appeared  in  the 
eastern  horizon.  The  snow  came  down  at  a  fearful  rate, 
and  from  the  northeast  right  in  our  faces.  Dragging 
along,  we  arrived  at  Plattsburg  about  1  P.  M.  and 
stopped  to  feed,  but  our  wagon  boxes  were  full  of  snow, 
so  we  shoveled  it  out  as  best  we  could  and  fed  our  horses 
the  little  feed  left.  Made  a  little  coffee,  got  some  bread 
and  ate  a  lunch  dinner.  After  probably  an  hour,  we 
started  for  home.  The  snow  had  gotten  so  deep,  and 
our  wagons  loaded  with  our  grists  and  full  of  snow  be- 
sides, we  made  very  slow  progress. 

The  storm  slacked  late  in  the  day,  the  clouds  break- 
ing away  and  the  wind  veering  to  northwest  and  it  bid 
fair  to  be  a  very  cold  night.  Our  teams  were  very  tired. 
We  arrived  at  Brother  John  Stone's,  a  church  brother  of 
Mr.  De  Hart's  and  a  good  friend  of  mother's,  my  father 
having  bought  of  him  the  timbered  tract  on  which 
William's  Creek  Bridge  now  stands,  several  years  before. 
Mr.  DeHart  said  he  was  going  to  stay  over  night  with 
Bro.  John  Stone  as  he  could  not  make  the  long  distance 
to  his  home.  I  said  I  had  to  go  home  as  mother  and  the 
little  girls  would  freeze.  We  lived  in  a  double  log  house 
with  big,  wide  fireplaces,  and  no  one  to  cut  wood  but  a 
10  year  old  boy. 

Bro.  Stone  and  DeHart  protested  that  I'd  freeze  if  I 
started  across  the  trackless  prairie  that  awful  night.  I 
persisted,  but  one  of  them  commenced  unhitching  my 
team,  the  other  telling  me  to  get  out  of  the  wagon  and 
they'd  take  care  of  the  horses.  They  knew  more  than  I 
did,  I  was  then  so  cold  and  stiff  that  I  would  have  frozen 
then  and  there  had  they  not  helped  me  out  of  the  wagon 
and  into  the  house.  Had  they  let  me  start  across  that 
prairie  that  evening,  I'd  not  now  be  writing  this  story. 

The  sun  came  out  next  morning  bright,  but  it  was 

51 


SEVENTY. FIVE    YEARS    ON    THE    BORDER 

intensely  cold.  I  started  for  home,  but  had  only  land 
marks  to  guide  me,  as  not  a  trace  of  the  road  was  to  be 
seen  for  the  deep  and  drifting  snow.  I  finally  got  home 
about  1  P.  M.  to  find  an  almost  frenzied  mother.  She 
lay  awake  all  that  fearful  night  thinking  I  was  freezing 
to  death  in  those  snow  drifts  on  the  trackless  prairie, 
which  is  now  the  beautiful  Keystone  neighborhood;  it 
is  now  sixty-three  years  since  I  made  that  trip  to  Estill's 
Mills. 


CHAPTER  21. 


THE  EARLY  DAY  HARD  SHELL  BAPTIST 
PREACHER. 

I  must  confess  I  should  approach  this  subject  a  little 
gingerly  as  it  comes  pretty  close  to  home.  Being  born 
of  Baptist  parentage,  of  course,  I  heard  in  my  earliest 
childhood  their  opinion  of  the  Calvinistic  theory  of  Pre- 
destination, Foreordination  from  the  foundation  of  the 
world,  and  of  infants  being  in  torment  not  a  span  long, 
and  all  that  kind  of  rot,  calculated  to  drive  a  child  away 
from  the  fountain  of  good.  I  am  writing  now  of  recol- 
lections and  impressions  made  on  my  childhood  memory 
nearly  75  years  ago  in  Van  Buren  (now  Cass)  County. 

Some  years  ago  I  ran  on  to  a  book,  whose  title  was, 
"Rural  Rhymes,  Talks  and  Tales  of  Olden  Times",  by 
Martin  L.  Rice  of  Lone  Jack,  Jackson  County,  Mo.,  the 
recognized  Poet  Laureate  of  Jackson  County  for  many 
years,  who  died  only  a  few  years  ago  at  a  great  age. 

I  will  digress  by  saying  when  quite  a  small  child, 
before  coming  to  Clinton  County,  I  knew  quite  well  a 
brother  of  the  poet,  Mr.  David  Rice,  who  was  a  clerk  in 
the  first  store  in  old  Pleasant  Hill,  owned  by  W.  W. 
Wright,  and  have  in  my  possession  many  receipted  bills 
for  goods  bought  of  him  75  years  ago.  David  Rice 
married  a  lady  whose  maiden  name  was  (I  think), 
Farmer,  a  kinswoman  to  the  pretty  little  Lottie  Farmer, 

52 


SEVENTY-FIVE   YEARS   ON    THE    BORDER 

several  times  mentioned  in  these  memoirs.  David  went 
to  California  in  the  great  exodus  of  49  and  50,  and  died 
on  the  plains,  I  think,  as  did  hundreds  of  others,  includ- 
ing one  of  my  father's  brothers  and  his  wife,  who  were 
buried  in  one  lonely  grave,  to  be  scratched  up  by  raven- 
ous wolves  and  their  bodies  devoured. 

There  was,  at  that  time,  another  young  man  living 
in  the  neighborhood  whose  name  was  Willy  Bayley,  who 
married  Miss  Nancy  Wilson,  a  daughter  of  the  good 
Indian  contractor  mentioned  in  my  Shawnee  Mission 
chapter.  Miss  Wilson  was  a  cousin  of  the  writer.  She 
died  a  few  years  after  her  marriage  with  Mr.  Bayley. 
As  they  were  all  old  Tennessee  stock,  it  was  not  strange 
that  Mr.  Bayley  should  select  the  young  widow  of  the 
dead  David  Rice  for  his  life  partner,  and  they  both  lived 
in  Pleasant  Hill  for  many  years,  he  dying  a  few  years 
since  at  a  great  age.  I  do  not  know  whether  Mrs.  Bay- 
ley  is  yet  living.  I  visited  them  a  few  years  ago  and  had 
quite  a  long  talk  with  them  about  the  poet,  and  first  sur- 
veyor of  Cass  County.  It  was  Martin  L.  Rice,  who  sur- 
veyed the  original  town  plat  of  Harrisonville,  Mo.  In 
his  "Talks  and  Tales",  Mr.  Rice  mentions,  among  many 
others,  a  Hard  Shell  Baptist  preacher,  who  was  on  his 
way  to  the  Little  Blue  country  to  hold  a  meeting  at  Bro. 
Fitzhugh's,  when  Rice's  friend,  the  Hoosier  pilgrim  to 
Westport,  fell  in  with,  and  accompanied  the  preacher  to 
Brother  Fitzhugh's.  This  trip  must  have  been  made 
nearly  seventy-five  years  ago,  and  that  being  the  case, 
the  writer  was  living  within  one  mile  of  Pleasant  Hill 
at  the  time,  but  a  very  small  child;  however,  I  can  re- 
member some  things  which  occurred  that  far  back.  It 
may  seem  a  little  strange  that  I  knew,  small  as  I  was, 
this  same  Hard  Shell  preacher,  as  well  as  Bro.  Fitz- 
hugh,  who  was  my  father's  guest  many  a  time  at  their 
big  meetings.  The  Hard  Shell's  name  was  James  Sav- 
age, one  of  whose  brothers,  Hiram  Savage,  had  married 
my  father's  sister,  Polly  Williams.  They  moved  to 
Dallas,  Texas,  many  years  since,  and  one  of  my  father's 
brothers,   James   Williams    (the   one   for   whom   I    am 

53 


SEVENTY-FIVE   YEARS    ON    THE    BORDER 

named),  married  the  Hard  Shell's  sister,  Polly  Savage, 
one  among  the  best  women  I  ever  knew;  she  died  near 
Scio,  Oregon,  some  years  ago  at  a  great  age. 

As  to  the  doctrines  those  old  Hard  Shells  promul- 
gated at  that  time,  I  was  too  young  to  know  anything 
about,  only  as  I  heard  them  talk.  When  we  got  over  on 
the  north  side  of  the  river,  I  found  lots  of  Hard  Shells 
here,  too.  My  father  could  not  swallow  predestination 
and  other  dogmas  proclaimed  from  Hard  Shell  pulpits, 
so  he  allied  himself  with  the  branch  of  the  Baptist  people 
called  Missionary,  endorsing  the  poem, — "From  Green- 
land's Icy  Mountains." 

Much  as  I  had  heard  about  Hard  Shell's  preaching, 
I  had  never  heard  one  preach,  after  I  could  understand 
anything,  about  the  doctrine  of  predestination  until  I 
was  a  grown-up  man,  so,  one  fine  Sunday  morning, 
knowing  that  a  very  prominent  man  of  that  day  holding 
to  the  faith  of  Calvin,  would  preach  down  the  creek  east 
of  us  a  few  miles  (somehow  I  used  to  like  to  go  down 
east  of  Sundays  thinking  I  might  see  some  one  whom  I 
thought  just  right  at  the  meeting).  Away  I  went,  getting 
a  good  position  on  the  porch  of  the  private  house  where 
the  preaching  was  to  be  held. 

Finally  the  preacher  arrived.  He  was  a  tall,  portly 
gentleman,  with  rather  florid  face,  indicating,  as  I 
thought,  his  nativity.  After  some  rather  sonorous;  back- 
woods drawling  (I  believe  they  called  it  singing),  he 
opened  his  discourse  with  their  stereotyped  text,  "No  one 
can  come  unto  me  except  the  Father  who  sent  me,  draw 
him."  I  am  not  sure  I've  quoted  this  passage  of  Scrip- 
ture correctly,  however,  I  think  I've  given  the  sense,  if 
not  the  precise  words.  So  our  old  sentinel  on  the  walls 
of  Zion,  floundered  along  quoting  passage  after  passage 
which  were  not  apropos  to  the  subject,  as  I  looked  at 
them  with  what  little  attention  I  did  pay  to  them  (my 
best  girl,  I  think,  was  not  there),  and  it  was  all  I  could 
do  to  keep  from  going  to  sleep. 

After  his  pounding  away  for  about  an  hour  or  more, 
(I  was  not  the  only  sleepy  one  in  that  crowd)  intimating 

54 


SEVENTY-FIVE   YEARS   ON    THE    BORDER 

to  sinners  they  ought  to  be  Christians,  but  at  the  same 
time  he  more  than  hinted  that  if  they  were  not  of  the 
"elect"  they  would  be  damned  if  they,  did,  or  if  they 
didn't. 

And  this  was  the  last  time  I  ever  gave  a  Hard  Shell 
Baptist  an  opportunity  to  inflict  eternal  damnation  on 
me,  whether  I  would  or  would  not.  From  what  I  knew 
of  the  antecedents  of  this,  as  well  as  some  other  old  Hard 
Shells  of  that  day,  I  concluded  he  was  a  better  exponent 
of  the  market  value  of  niggers,  mules,  tobacco  and 
whiskey  (especially  the  home  market  for  some  of  these 
chattels)  than  of  the  glad  tidings  of  a  crucified  Redeemer, 
and  the  sequel  proved  the  correctness  of  my  observations. 

I've  not  heard  a  Hard  Shell  sermon  since. 


CHAPTER  22. 


SHIPPING  STOCK  FIFTY-TWO  YEARS  AGO. 

It  might  interest  some  of  the  old  timers  in  the  stock 
shipping  trade  to  recount  the  many  difficulties  and  draw- 
backs shippers  had  to  encounter  fifty  years  ago. 

To  commence  with,  there  was  very  little  cash  capi- 
tal in  this  part  of  the  state,  either  in  banks  or  private 
hands.  I  remember,  as  I  have  said  once  before  in  this 
work,  that  many  of  the  early  local  shippers  bought  their 
shipments  (their  little  funds,  most  of  it,  being  tied  up  in 
land  and  feeding),  on  credit  till  the  shipper  returned, 
and  the  currency  we  brought  back  would  have  put  to 
shame  Jacob's  herd  of  cattle  on  his  ranch  in  Palestine 
before  he  and  his  grandfather,  Abraham  &  Lot,  dis- 
solved partnership.  Many  colors  would  be  a  very  tame 
description  of  how  it  looked;  in  fact,  I  couldn't  tell  the 
good  from  the  bad,  the  spurious  from  the  genuine,  and 
even  the  genuine  was  based  mostly  on  hot  winded  prom- 
ises to  pay  of  some  far  off  concern,  whose  circulation 
was  based  on  somebody  else's  promise  to  pay.  This  was 
just  the  kind  of  currency  the  contractors  of  the  Hannibal 

55 


SEVENTY-FIVE    YEARS    ON    THE    BORDER 

m 

&  St.  Joseph  Ry.  had  to  take  the  pay  out  for  labor  and 
material  in  building  this,  the  pioneer  railway  in  the  West. 
So  that  this,  with  the  little  gold  and  silver  the  Govern- 
ment paid  out  for  supplies  on  the  border,  was  our  entire 
circulating  medium,  and  the  paper  shin  plaster  circu- 
lated, and  the  gold  and  silver,  in  most  cases,  stayed  in 
bank  vaults,  in  case  values  had  to  be  moved  suddenly. 
I  well  remember  when  I  first  shipped  stock  to  Chicago. 
I  always  sold  them  myself,  face  to  face  with  Nelson  Mor- 
ris, Myers,  Tilden  and  many  other  New  York  and  Pitts- 
burgh buyers  at  the  old  Lake  Shore  Stock  Yards,  which 
were  located  on  the  Lake  shore  somewhere  in  the  vicinity 
of  16th  to  20th  streets.  We,  after  selling,  always  sub- 
mitted our  currency,  as  it  was  called  (a  great  misnomer), 
to  Mr.  Steven  B.  Roath,  the  general  live  stock  freight 
collector  for  all  the  railways  at  the  Yards,  who  was,  at 
that  time,  considered  the  best  judge  of  "wild  cat  cur- 
rency" in  the  City  of  Chicago.  If  Steven  O.  K'd.  a  pack- 
age, we  pocketed  it  and  released  the  stock  to  the  buyer. 

I  can  also  remember  that  bright  Irish  woman,  who 
was  the  housekeeper  and  matron  manager  of  the  culi- 
nary department  of  the  old  Lake  Shore  hotel,  which  was 
run  by  the  late  John  B.  Sherman,  who  later,  and  for 
many  years  until  his  death  some  years  since,  managed 
the  big  Transit  House  at  the  great  Union  Stock  Yards, 
established,  I  think  in  the  year  1865.  I've  just  today, 
Jan.  8th,  1912,  received  the  Kansas  City  paper  of  Jan. 
6th  announcing  the  destruction  by  fire  of  the  great,  well 
known  Transit  House,  where  I've  eaten  many  a  good 
meal. 

The  good  Irish  matron  followed  up  the  Stock  Yards 
and  John  B.  Sherman  and  stayed  with  them  to  the  end 
of  her  life,  as  I  learned  from  the  Drovers'  Journal  at 
the  time  it  occurred  a  good  many  years  ago.  When  I 
first  went  to  Chicago  with  stock,  there  was  slough  grass 
growing  where  the  Transit  House  was  burned  on  Jan. 
6th. 

Mr.  Solomon  Musser,  of  Cameron,  Mo.,  drove  over- 
land 200  steers  from  Cameron  to  Chicago  in  1855  or  '56, 


SEVENTY-FIVE   YEARS   ON    THE    BORDER 

driving  them  all  the  way,  and  crossing  them  at  Clinton, 
Iowa.  They  grazed  all  the  way,  and  his  hands  herded 
them  where  the  stock  yards  are  now  located  and  in  the 
vicinity.  When  the  market  would  be  a  little  bare  and 
then  spring  up  a  little,  he'd  cut  out  a  few  of  the  best 
and  drive  down  to  one  of  the  three  yards,  viz;  Lake 
Shore,  Pittsburg  and  Ft.  Wayne,  or  Michigan  Central, 
and  later  (war  times)  Cottage  Grove  Yards,  and  sell  the 
cattle  himself.  This,  of  course,  was  a  long  time  before 
the  Live  Stock  Commission  firms  had  offices  at  the 
Yards,  and  in  like  manner  nearly  every  shipper  did  the 
same  thing  until  the  great  Union  Stock  Yards  were 
opened  in  1865  or  '66,  from  which  time  on,  very  little 
selling  has  been  done  by  the  owners  of  stock.  Cattle 
feeders,  however,  frequently  buy  their  feeding  cattle, 
but  there  is  a  question  whether,  in  the  long  run,  they  gain 
much,  especially  if  their  time  is  limited,  and  the  class  of 
stock  they  are  wanting  happens  to  be  scarce  on  the  mar- 
ket at  the  time  they  are  on  the  market  wanting  to  pur- 
chase. 

In  the  selling  of  cattle,  I've  found  out  by  more  than 
50  years'  experience,  that  a  feeder  from  his  feed  lot 
doesn't  know  when  he  has  the  best  buyer  in  the  Yards 
nibbling  at  his  stock.  Commission  salesmen  trading 
with  the  buyers  frequently  hunt  them  up  on  a  bad  mar- 
ket, and  if  they  make  a  reasonably  fair  offer  for  the  stock, 
don't  let  them  get  away  without  a  hard  struggle  to  sell, 
and  usually  succeed. 


CHAPTER  23. 


WHY  AND  HOW  CAMERON  GOT  THE  NAME  IT 

BEARS. 

Many  years  ago  there  lived  in  one  of  the  central,  (I 
think  it  was  Howard),  counties  of  this  state  a  man  whose 
name  was  Elisha  Cameron.  In  the  tide  of  emigration 
west,  he  moved  to  Clay  County  in  a  very  early  day.  I 
get  this  history  from  my  mother,  who  knew  them  before 

57 


SEVENTY-FIVE    YEARS    ON    THE    BORDER 

they  moved  to  Clay  County,  and  was  a  schoolmate  of 
Mrs.  McCorkle,  who  was  a  daughter  of  Mr.  Cameron, 
and  Mr.  Samuel  McCorkle's  wife.  Mr.  Samuel  McCorkle 
was  a  very  old  settler;  was  a  native  of  Kentucky,  born 
about  1797  and  died  about  the  biginning  of  the  great 
war.  Samuel  McCorkle,  E.  M.  Samuel  and  the  Hannibal 
Railway  Co.  were  partners  in  the  original  town  plat  of 
Cameron,  and  as  a  courtesy  to  Mr.  McCorkle,  allowed 
him  to  name  it  after  his  wife's  father,  Mr.  Elisha  Camer- 
on. Mr.  McCorkle  had  a  bearing  orchard  when  I  first 
was  at  his  place  70  years  ago,  and  used  to  give  us  boys, 
who  were  his  frequent  visitors,  lots  of  good  apples  to 
eat  and  take  home  to  mother,  his  wife's  old  schoolmate 
many  years  before. 

Mr.  McCorkle  was  quite  a  good  judge  of  fast  horses 
and  sometimes  (not  often)  would  back  his  judgment 
against  such  well  known  old  sportsmen  as  old  Dick 
Welden  and  Dave  and  Andy  Hughes  of  Far  West,  and 
usually  held  his  own.  Old  Dave  Hughes  then  lived  in 
the  best  house  in  Far  West  at  that  time.  It  had  been  the 
residence  (in  the  palmy  days)  of  Joseph  Smith,  the  Mor- 
mon Prophet.  Mr.  McCorkle  was  generous  to  a  fault  to 
the  very  poor  and  died  with  many  friends  and  not  a 
known  enemy. 

There  is  no  question,  but  his  two  daughters,  and 
Mrs.  Louise  Kariker,  three  miles  south  of  town,  are  a 
great  deal  the  longest  residents  anywhere  near  Cameron. 
His  daughters,  Mrs  Elizabeth  Newberry  and  Mrs.  Susan 
Harris,  have  been  mentioned  several  times  in  these 
memoirs,  I've  been  acquainted  with  them  70  years. 


CHAPTER  24. 


A  TRIBUTE  TO   D.  WARD  KING,  OF  MAITLAND,  MO. 
•THE   SPLIT   LOG   ROAD   DRAG  MAN." 

Come  young  and  old,  let  us  sing 
Of  split  log  drags  and  D.  Ward  King, 
He's  solved  the  question  of  heavy  loads, 
Teaching  us  how  to  drag  the  roads. 


SEVENTY-FIVE   YEARS   ON    THE   BORDER 


Conventions   meet,   pass   resolutions   with   a   jerk, 
Expecting  the  farmers  to  do  all  the  work. 
I'll  tell  them  now:  better  count  the  cost, 
Before   they  "reckon  without  their  host." 

Relieve  the  farmer  of  part  of  his  load, 
By  hiring  a  man  to  drag  the  road; 
He'll  make  them  better;  I'll  tell  you  why 
By  dragging  them  well  as  they  get  dry. 

Now  let  me  repeat  to  "Auto  men," 

The  farmer  won't  bear  any  further  strain 

Endangering  the  lives  of  children  and  wives, 

Come  out  and  help  to  give  him  heart; 

I'll  go  his  bail,  he'll  do  his  part. 

Then  drag  the  roads  as  slick  as  glass, 
Your  big  six  motor  will  smoothly  pass; 
A  four  seated  car  with  seven  piled  in 
Will  run  so  easy,  'twill  make  you  grin. 

Better  not  work  the  roads  at  all 
Than  plow  them  up  late  in  the  fall; 
But  if  good  results  you  would  bring, 
Do  the  work  in  the  early  spring. 

Let  country  and  town  join  hands  and  sing, 

Of  the  "Good  Roads"  renown  of  D.  Ward  King. 

These  lines,  though  lacking  in  rhythm,  melody  and 
meter,  such  as  they  are,  are  respectfully  inscribed  to  the 
memory  of  D.  Ward  King  of  Maitland,  Mo.,  the  "Evan- 
gel of  Good  Roads." 

Midway  Place,  Route  1,  Cameron  Mo. 

Jan.    8th,    1912. 
James  Williams. 


CHAPTER  25. 


PEDDLING  CHICKENS  TO  FT.  LEAVENWORTH 
57  YEARS  AGO. 

In  the  spring  and  summer  of  1855,  my  mother  had 
raised  a  fine  lot  of  nice  chickens,  Domineckers,  we  called 
them,  with  no  home  market  only  Plattsburg  and  Haynes- 
ville  and  three  dozen  chickens  would  have  swamped  both 

59 


SEVENTY. FIVE    YEARS    ON    THE    BORDER 

markets.  We  heard  from  our  neighbor,  Mr.  William 
Gilbert,  father  of  Mayor  Gilbert  of  Kansas  City,  Kas.,  a 
few  years  since,  that  a  good  spring  chicken  would  sell 
for  25c  to  officers  and  soldiers  at  Fort  Leavenworth; 
Leavenworth  City  was  hardly  known  then.  Weston,  on 
this  side  of  the  river  at  that  time  was  the  largest  town 
between  Brunswick  and  St.  Joseph  and  was  about  as 
good  a  town,  but  not  as  large  as  St.  Joe. 

So  we  decided  to  market  our  chickens  at  "The  Fort." 
I  made  a  3-story  coop  about  8  feet  long  and  as  wide  as 
a  wagon  box,  to  fit  in  the  bolster  and  hind  stakes  like  a 
box  on  a  waggon,  with  bottom  rail  of  3x4  oak  scantling 
cross  pieces  mortised  in  to  nail  floor  to,  divided  by  two 
partitions  for  middle  floors,  making  in  all,  three  com- 
partments that  held  12  to  15  dozen  chickens  nicely.  I 
put  54  inch  pins  in  bottom  rail  on  front  and  rear,  or 
hind  bolster,  to  keep  this  big  coop  from  going  forward 
in  going  down  the  long  and  very  steep  hills.  At  that 
time  the  roads  were  worked  and  graded  very  little.  I 
never  saw  a  road  scraper  for  many  years  after  that,  and 
the  first  I  saw  was  a  cast  iron  affair  which  now  would 
hardly  be  considered  good  junk.  We  then  had  no  brakes 
to  our  wagon,  nothing  but  lock  chains,  which  locked  the 
wheel.  We  had  to  stop,  get  off  the  wagon  to  lock  and 
unlock.  If  the  hill  was  not  too  bad,  we'd  hold  back  as 
long  as  possible,  and  then  gallop  the  team  the  balance 
of  the  hill,  a  very  unsafe  performance  with  that  Shang- 
hai, 3-story,  rickety  chicken  coop,  which  came  very  near 
being  the  cause  of  this  book  never  being  written. 

At  any  rate,  I  got  the  affair  ready  for  the  chickens, 
and  we  loaded  it  as  full  as  we  dared  to,  the  weather  be- 
ing very  warm  and  sultry,  and  away  I  went  to  market 
somewhat  better  pleased  than  we  were  when  we  started 
to  Mirabile  with  "Hemp  and  Bacon.''  I  had  a  big  mastiff 
dog  and  I  didn't  want  him  to  go  with  me,  but  he  follow- 
ed, and  as  he  would  not  go  back,  so  he  went  along. 

It  took  me  two  days  to  reach  the  Fort  and  sell  my 
chickens.  I  had  the  time  of  my  life  in  keeping  the 
soldiers  from  getting  most  of  them.     I  found  the  dog  a 


SEVENTY-FIVE    YEARS    ON    THE    BORDER 

good  friend  in  need  when  a  chicken  would  get  away 
from  me  in  taking  it  out  of  the  coop.  The  soldiers  around 
would  go  for  it,  but  the  big  dog  was  too  quick  for  them. 
They  didn't  dare  offer  any  violence  or  they'd  have  gone 
to  the  Guard  House  instanter.  They  were  pretty  smooth, 
but  the  blue  coats  seven  or  eight  years  later  could  have 
taught  them  tricks  of  a  disappearing  chicken  which 
would  have  astonished  a  Japanese  juggler. 

One  chicken  got  away  from  me,  and  away  the  old 
dog  and  soldiers  went  after  it,  around  and  around  the 
house  and  finally,  a  door  being  open,  in  the  chicken 
went,  and  the  big  mastiff  hard  after  it,  and  under  a  bed 
with  the  dog  still  after  it,  scaring  some  niggers  nearly 
out  of  their  wits;  at  any  rate,  they  ran  out  of  the  house 
into  the  street  with  eyes  sticking  out  far  enough  to  have 
been  knocked  off  with  a  shingle.  But  the  dog  got  the 
chicken  just  the  same,  to  the  disgust  of  the  soldiers  who 
were  engaged  in  the  chase. 

I  soon  sold  all  the  chickens,  but  it  was  about  night, 
so  I  went  back  */£  mile  on  the  Government  Reservation 
in  a  secluded  nook  and  camped  for  the  night,  feeling 
pretty  safe  with  my  good  friend,  the  big  mastiff.  I  didn't 
start  very  early  the  next  morning.  I  crossed  the  river 
on  a  little  ferry  at  the  Fort,  and  drove  down  to  Weston, 
arriving  about  noon  and  put  my  horses  in  a  stable  and 
got  my  lunch  at  a  restaurant.  I  had  some  goods  to  buy. 
In  the  meantime,  it  commenced  thundering,  with 
dark  clouds  gathering  in  the  west.  I  bought  a  sack  of 
salt,  and  as  it  had  commenced  to  rain,  I  bought  little, 
else  thinking  I'd  get  them  in  Plattsburg  after  the  rain. 

While  in  the  store  (the  big  dog  with  me),  I  met  old 
Mr.  Archie,  the  father-in-law  of  Mr.  Gilbert,  men- 
tioned before.  He  put  at  me  to  go  out  home  with 
him  and  stay  over  night,  telling  me  how  to  find  his 
place  about  2  or  3  miles  out.  By  this  time  the  rain  was 
coming  down  in  torrents;  on  its  slacking  up  a  little,  he 
started  home  and  I  for  my  team.  It  was  then  nearly 
dark.  I  got  the  sack  of  salt  in  the  wagon,  covering  it 
with  a  wide  seat  board,  and  hitched  up  and  started  with- 

61 


SEVENTY-FIVE    YEARS    ON    THE    BORDER 

out  thinking  of  my  good  dog,  which  I  saw  no  more. 
Everybody  had  started  home.  I  think  my  dog  was 
locked  in  the  back  warehouse  where  we  got  the  salt. 
That  dog  was  really  worth  as  much  as  that  load  of 
chickens.  I  didn't  have  him  long  and  had  never  learned 
his  worth  until  this  trip.  I  felt  pretty  badly  when  I  found 
he  was  not  with  me. 

I  drove  on  quite  slowly;  the  road  was  very  slippery 
for  a  barefoot  team,  and  it  soon  got  as  dark  as  Erebus, 
and  the  rain  came  down  like  a  tropical  torrent.  When 
out  a  mile  or  so,  on  going  down  one  of  those  long,  steep 
ridges  of  Platte  County,  when  about  midway  of  the  hill, 
I  felt  the  big  chicken  coop  wagon  box  sliding  forward  on 
to  the  horses.  With  no  brakes,  all  I  could  do  was  to 
jump  for  life,  as  the  heavy  thing  jammed  against  the 
horses,  which  were  already  nearly  in  a  gallop  going  down 
that  long  hill.  Off  I  tumbled  in  the  mud,  rain  and 
Egyptian  darkness.  With  an  occasional  peal  of  thunder 
and  flash  of  lightning,  straining  my  eyes  in  the  direction 
of  the  noise  made  by  my  team  and  wagon,  I  would  catch 
a  glimpse  of  them.  I  stood  breathless,  listening  and 
straining  my  eyes,  when  at  once  there  came  an  awful 
crash.  I  started  down  the  road  as  well  as  I  could  see  by 
the  almost  incessant  lightning,  when  I  ran  onto  a  tall 
cornerstone  marker  in  the  middle  of  the  road.  It  was  at 
least  three  feet  high,  and  my  wagon  had  centered  it  and 
pushed  it  half  over  in  the  direction  the  team  was  going. 

The  shock  had  knocked  the  big  coop  clear  off  of  the 
running  gear,  turning  it  over  in  the  road,  the  team  taking 
the  wagon  on  a  little  distance  farther  and  finally,  getting 
rid  of  it.  By  this  time  the  rain  had  slacked  up.  I  heard 
the  chain  harness  up  at  one  side  of  the  road  by  a  high  rail 
fence,  and  watching  when  it  lightened,  I  found  the  horses 
and  took  off  the  broken  harness,  got  on  one  horse  and  led 
the  other,  covering  my  salt  with  the  wide  board,  and  by 
inquiry  at  every  house  where  I'd  see  a  light,  I  finally  got 
to  Mr.  Archie's  quite  late.  This  good  man  got  a  lantern 
and  found  one  of  my  horses  pretty  badly  hurt.  He  had 
a  good  liniment   (which  I  am  using  to  this  day,  never 


SEVENTY-FIVE   YEARS   ON    THE   BORDER 

having  found  any  better)  which  he  used  on  the  horse. 
He  went  with  me  the  next  day  (Sunday)  taking  one  of 
his  teams  and  wagon,  and  brought  my  wrecked  wagon 
in.  We  doctored  horses  and  wagon  and  harness  all  day, 
and  next  morning,  stiff  and  sore  as  my  team  was,  I 
started  for  home.  This  good  man  Archie  would  not 
think  of  charging  me  a  cent  for  all  his  trouble  and  work, 
yet  he  was  just  the  kind  of  man  we  called  Rebels  a  few 
years  later. 

Then,  is  it  any  wonder  the  Blue  and  the  Gray  have 
shaken  hands  across  the  "Bloody  Chasm,"  and  marched 
shoulder  to  shoulder  up  bloody  San  Juan  Hill  to  the 
martial  strains  of  "Columbia,  the  Gem  of  the  Ocean." 


CHAPTER  26. 


THE  OLD  SHAWNEE  MISSION. 

The  old  Shawnee  Mission  buildings  are  located  two 
or  three  miles  out  of  Westport  (Kansas  City),  to  the 
southwest.  I  have  never  been  right  there  at  the  old 
Mission,  however,  Fve  known  of  it  since  my  very  first 
memory,  73  or  74  years  ago.  The  buildings  stand,  I  am 
informed,  about  three-fourths  mile  south  of  Shawnee 
Place  station  on  the  Strang  Electric  line,  between  Kansas 
City  and  Olathe,  Kas.  My  father  helped  his  brother-in- 
law,  Mr.  Andrew  Wilson  (who  then  lived  half  a  mile 
south  of  the  present  site  of  Pleasant  Hill  in  Cass  Co., 
Mo.,  and  was  a  contractor  with  the  U.  S.  Government) 
to  furnish  fat  hogs  to  both  the  Harmony  and  Shawnee 
Missions  to  supply  the  friendly  Indians,  where,  as  my 
memory  goes,  both  Catholic  and  Protestant  missionaries 
vied  with  each  other  to  advance  these  semi-civilized  In- 
dians in  the  arts  of  peace  and  Christianity. 

Many  a  time  I've  heard  my  father  tell  mother,  (when 
he  had  gotten  back  from  one  of  those  trips)  of  the  Cath- 
olic services  in  those  old  buildings.  I  especially  remem- 
ber one  trip  he  made,  when  he  attended  the  Easter  ser- 


SEVENTY-FIVE   YEARS    ON    THE    BORDER 

vices  of  the  Catholic  Mission.  He  thought  it  little  less 
than  desecration;  not  understanding,  or  realizing  that 
the  beautiful  Easter  services  of  the  Catholic  Church 
would  (as  it  undoubtedly  has)  do  more  to  attract  and 
to  some  extent,  civilize  and  Christianize  the  semi-bar- 
barous nations  and  tribes  of  savages  of  North  America, 
than  any  other  since  the  days  of  Whitfield. 

And,  yet,  without  the  wholesome  fear  of  the  uni- 
formed cavalry  of  the  U.  S.  Government,  these  friendly 
Indians  on  our  western  borders  could  not  have  remained 
at  peace  with  their  white  neighbors,  some  of  whom  were 
but  little,  if  any  better,  in  principle,  than  their  savage 
neighbors. 

This  man  Wilson  got  a  contract  to  furnish  plows 
for  the  Missions  and  had  the  plows  made  at  a  primitive 
blacksmith  shop  run  by  a  Mr.  Frederick  Farmer,  an 
Uncle  of  the  little  sweetheart  of  Cousin  Luke  Williams 
(Lottie  Farmer),  with  whom  I  had  the  spelling  contest 
a  good  many  years  after  for  the  little  Bible. 

I  can  remember  just  how  those  primitive  plows 
looked.  The  mold  board  was  usually  made  of  a  very 
twisting  walnut  log  cut  in  cross  sections  as  long  as  the 
mold  board  was  wanted.  For  sod  breaking,  it  was  near- 
ly twice  as  long  as  for  old  ground.  The  walnut  timber 
being  very  hard,  would  sometimes  scour  a  little  in  the 
exceedingly  tough  prairie  sod,  but  not  a  bit  in  the  old 
ground.  We'd  starve  to  death  now  if  we  had  to  use  such 
implements  as  those.  However,  they  were  a  step  in  ad- 
vance of  the  ancient  method  of  plowing  with  the  fork  of 
a  tree  and  crotch  for  the  plow,  and  the  other  for  the 
beam,  with  one  handle  in  place  of  two. 

A  somewhat  strange  coincidence,  is  having  heard 
my  father  tell  about  what  a  fine  country  it  was  around 
those  old  Missions  70  years  ago,  and  I  am  now  owning 
some  lands  along  the  old  Santa  Fe  Trail  not  a  great 
distance  from  the  old  Missions.  It  may  be  a  little  bet- 
ter land,  but  I  think  it  is  not  as  nice  as  much  of  the  lands 
in  Clinton  County. 

About  90  years  ago,  our    Government   sent    to    the 

64 


SEVENTY-FIVE   YEARS   ON    THE    BORDER 

border,  Nathan  Boone,  one  of  the  old  Indian  fighter's 
sons,  rightly  presuming  that  he  knew  better  how  to  treat 
and  manage  Border  Indians  than  any  other  man  in  the 
West  (barring  his  father  who  was  too  old  at  that  time). 
Many  of  Nathan  Boone's  descendants  are  still  living  six 
miles  south  of  Westport,  and  were  my  neighbors  while 
I  stayed  there  a  few  years  since.  My  mother  knew 
Nathan  Boone  well. 


CHAPTER  27. 


SOME  UNWRITTEN  HISTORY. 

Knowing  that  these  biographical  sketches  grow  mo- 
notonous and  are  interesting  only  to  people  who  are 
descendants  of  the  particular  biography  of  some  of  their 
forefathers,  hence,  I  believe  a  short  story  of  some  of  the 
unwritten  history  of  soldier  raids,  escapades,  skirmishes 
and  Other  incidents  that  came  under  the  notice  of  the 
writer,  who  was  more  or  less  in  camp  and  along  with 
the  enrolled  militia  in  several  mititary  excursions,  or 
raids,  south  and  west  of  Cameron,  would  interest  the 
younger  generations,  who  have  come  on  the  stage  of 
action  since  these  tragic  scenes  have  been  nearly  for- 
gotten. 

The  first  that  I  was  with  was  just  a  day  or  two  be- 
fore Col.  Mulligan's  surrender  at  Lexington.  A  battal- 
ion of  the  Iowa  Second  Regiment,  I  think  it  was,  got  off 
the  cars  at  Cameron  and  marched  across  the  country 
south  to  Liberty  Landing  to  intercept  a  large  force  of 
Confederate  recruits  commanded  by  Col.  Patten  and 
Raines.  As  well  as  I  now  recollect,  a  call  was  made  for 
mounted  militia  men  (volunteers)  to  go  to  Platte  River 
bridge  (as  we  thought)  to  guard  the  railroad,  wooden 
truss  bridges  at  that  time,  which  were  very  important 
from  a  military  standpoint.  Well,  forty  of  us  patriots 
came  to  the  front.  Our  horses  and  accoutrements  were 
loaded  on  cars  and  run  to  Platte  bridge,  a  good  deal 
faster  than  we  liked  on  that  rough  road.    We  were  un- 


SEVENTY-FIVE    YEARS    ON    THE    BORDER 

i 

loaded  and  ordered  to  "Forward,  march"  to  form  a  junc- 
tion with  the  Illinois  16th  Regiment  (about  as  rough  a 
lot  of  almost  brigands  as  I  came  in  contact  with  during 
war  time).  In  the  meantime,  we  learned  that  the  Con- 
federate forces  of  Raines  and  Patten  were  just  a  few 
hours  ahead  of  us. 

So,  tired  as  we  were,  we  made  a  forced  march  that 
same  day  to  New  Market  in  Platte  County.  Raines'  men 
had  completely  cleaned  the  County  of  stuff  to  eat,  and 
the  militia  were  without  commissary  and  had  to  depend 
on  foraging  on  the  enemy,  which  were  mostly  women, 
their  men  being  either  hid  in  the  brush,  or  with  Raines' 
army  ahead  of  us.  Our  scouts  ran  on  to  a  flock  of  sheep 
killed  what  they  needed,  and  roasted  some  of  the  choice 
pieces,  and  we  ate  it  half  done  without  salt,  bread  or  any- 
thing else,  and  turned  in  for  the  night,  and  such  a  night! 
I  took  cholera  morbus  and  was  awful  sick  from  eating 
that  half  rare  mutton,  and  had  it  not  been  some  one  had 
a  little  brandy,  or  whiskey  along,  I  might  not  now  be 
writing  my  soldier  experience  of  fifty  years  ago.  The 
Quartermaster's  Sergeant  of  the  Illinois  troops  gave  us 
a  little  share  of  their  rations  for  breakfast.  Meantime, 
the  Illinois  16th  Infantry  were,  many  of  them,  mounting 
on  the  fine  saddle  horses  of  Buchanan  and  Platte  coun- 
ties, some  horses  carrying  two  men.  Early  next  morning 
the  bugle  sounded  "mount".  Rather  a  strange  call  for 
an  Infantry  regiment. 

Next  call,  "Forward,  march,  double  quick",  but  the 
double  quick  was  not  executed.  It  had  rained  a  short 
time  before,  and  General  Raines'  two  thousand  raw 
mounted  recruits,  beside  several  hundred  of  our  crowd 
were  mounted,  together  with  one  company  of  regular 
Cavalry  (the  best  drilled  soldiers  I  saw  during  the  war), 
as  well  as  a  battery  of  artillery  (the  only  one  I  ever  wit- 
nessed unlimber  in  action  in  my  little  war  experience) 
with  the  great  crowd,  all  on  one  road  going  helter  skel- 
ter, we  made  very  little  progress. 

Arriving  late  in  the  day  at  the  bridge  across  the 
Platte  river  at  Platte  City,  we  found  near  the  bridge 

06 


SEVENTY-FIVE    YEARS    ON    THE    BORDER 

some  long  ricks  of  cord  wood  piled  up  and  "Si  Gordon's" 
so  called  bushwhackers  hidden  behind  them.  On  the  ap- 
proach of  our  van  guard,  they  opened  fire  on  us  and  killed 
one  man,  and  I  think  wounded  one  or  two  others,  then 
fled  across  the  bridge,  through  the  town  to  the  woods 
beyond.  'Twas  then  the  artillery  rushed  past  where  I 
was,  to  the  front,  unlimbered  and  commenced  shelling  the 
woods  northeast  of  town.  The  bombs,  smoking  fuse 
shrieking  through  the  air,  bursting  in  the  woods  fright- 
ened our  green  militia,  I  have  an  idea,  a  great  deal  more 
than  they  did  Col.  Gordon's  seasoned  partisan  soldiers. 

Talk  about  a  town  being  looted !  I'll  just  say,  up  to 
that  time  I  had  but  little  idea  of  what  war  meant.  The 
worst  elements  in  the  country  were  turned  loose;  the 
enraged  soldiers  were  hungry  as  wolves  without  com- 
missary and  transportation,  hence,  had  to  carry  on  their 
backs,  through  mud,  their  blankets  and  what  little  com- 
missaries were  issued  to  them  before  leaving  St.  Joseph. 
The  blankets  getting  wet  with  no  tents,  were  mostly 
thrown  away,  and  the  provisions  eaten  up.  This  was 
what  was  the  matter  with  that  tired  mob  that  night. 
Was  it  any  wonder  that  they  looted  the  town? 

I'll  give  only  one  incident  I  remember  as  it  was  so 
ludicrously  funny.  The  soldiers  had  run  on  to  a  lot  of 
very  fine  canned  fruit  and  other  good  things  to  eat,  be- 
sides a  lot  of  home  spun  and  woven  blankets,  in  the 
home  of  a  wealthy  family.  There  was  no  One  there  keep- 
ing house  but  an  old-like,  ponderous  negro  woman,  and 
I'll  never  forget  the  fury  of  that  old  colored  woman  ser- 
vant when  she  contemplated  the  ruin  of  her  good  (she 
said)  master's  and  mistress's  home,  saying  with  gestures 
suitable  to  the  occasion,  that  she'd  always  been  Union, 
but  if  this  was  Union  she'd  not  be  Union  "no  mo'  ". 

When  morning  came,  we  were  routed  out  early,  a 
courier  having  arrived  urgently  requesting  our  command 
to  hurry  up  to  Liberty  with  all  possible  speed,  saying  a 
disastrous  fight  had  occurred  on  the  north  bank  of  the 
Missouri  River  near  Blue  Mills  Landing,  in  which  Col. 
Scott's  battalion  of  Iowa  Infantry  had  been  entrapped  in 

67 


SEVENTY-FIVE    YEARS    ON    THE    BORDER 

* 

an  ambuscade,  together  with  some  Missouri  militia,  and 
badly  cut  to  pieces,  losing  a  good  many  men  in  killed 
and  wounded,  as  well  as  part  of  their  artillery.  Col. 
Scott's  brave  men  managed  to  cut  their  way  out  and 
saved  one  or  two  cannon,  the  postilion  and  gunners 
cutting  the  dead  horses  loose  and  drawing  the  pieces  off 
the  bloody  field  in  the  face  of  a  furious  fusillade,  which, 
however,  was  discharged  from  only  farm  rifles  and  fowl- 
ing pieces  of  Gen.  Raines*  raw  recruits  at  long  range,  do- 
ing very  little  execution.  The  Union  forces  received  the 
first  onslaught  from  the  ambuscade  (they  foolishly 
rushed  into  it)  at  point  blank  range  of  those  fowling 
pieces,  and  in  their  frantic  attempt  to  unlimber  and  bring 
their  guns  into  action,  many  of  them  were  shot  down. 
When  the  bugle  sounded  their  recall,  they  left  their  dead 
and  wounded  on  the  bloody  field. 

Some  of  my  neighbors  were  killed,  others  wounded 
in  that  little  battle.  The  most  dead  and  wounded  men 
I  saw  in  my  militia  experience  through  the  Civil  War 
was  after  this  fight  (in  which  the  Confederates  were  the 
victors)  at  William  Jewell  College  Hall  which  was 
converted  into  a  military  barracks  and  hospital. 

Our  command  hurried  full  speed,  after  the  news  of 
the  disastrous  repulse  at  Liberty,  without  any  regard  to 
military  tactics,  arriving  in  squads  all  forenoon,  and  the 
footmen  all  through  the  afternoon  and  evening.  Liberty 
was  a  worse  torn  up  town,  if  possible,  than  Platte  City 
was  when  we  left  it.  Stores,  shops  and  many  residences 
were  completely  gutted  of  everything  whether  useful  or 
not. 

It  is  a  shameful  truth  that  I  am  sorry  to  put  on 
record  that  many  seemingly  good  Unionists  of  that 
period  appeared  to  be  more  anxious  to  secure  plunder, 
especially  good  horses  or  mules  as  Government  con- 
tractors were  paying  big  prices  for,  than  they  were  to 
face  the  Confederates,  bushwhackers  or  anything  else 
where  there  was  danger  in  the  locality.  The  rank  and 
file  were  good  men;  the  trouble  was  higher  up. 

In  my  opinion,  this  was  one  cause  of  the  Confederate 


SEVENTY. FIVE   YEARS   ON    THE    BORDER 

success  at  the  beginning  of  the  war.  Their  people  had 
little  to  lose  but  niggers  and  a  mighty  poor  market  in 
which  to  sell. 

Midway  Place,  Nov.  7th,  1911. 


CHAPTER  28. 


SHIPPING  SALT  FROM  CAMERON,  MO.,  TO 
WINTERSET,  IA. 

I  wonder  if  anybody  will  believe  that  as  heavy  and 
cheap  an  article  as  common  salt  has  ever  been  marketed 
in  Winterset,  Iowa,  bought  in  Cameron  and  hauled  in 
wagons  the  more  than  150  miles  over  almost  boundless 
prairies  to  Winterset,  Iowa.  It  has  been  done,  and  the 
writer  is  the  individual  who  accompanied  that  invoice 
consisting  of  12  sacks  of  Kanawa  Ohio  River  salt.  Those 
sacks  contained  150  lbs.  of  salt  each.  It  was  in  June, 
1860,  the  dry  est  season  that  anybody  can  remember  up 
to  that  time.  I  think  the  entire  precipitation  for  twelve 
months  would  not  reach  four  inches. 

Seeing  a  total  failure  of  crops  stared  me,  as  well  as 
every  other  farmer,  in  the  face,  and  hearing  that  crop 
prospects  were  promising  about  Des  Moines,  Iowa;  and 
knowing  that  there  was  no  railway  transportation  to  Des 
Moines  nearer  than  Eddyville  in  the  eastern  part  of  the 
state,  I  jumped  at  the  conclusion  to  buy  a  load  of  salt  and 
haul  it  to  Des  Moines  and  exchange  it  for  flour  for  back 
load,  as  was  frequently  done  with  Missouri  apples  out, 
and  Iowa  flour  back,  but  I  later  found  I'd  "reckoned 
without  my  host." 

I  loaded  up  and  started  on  an  old  wagon  and  a  plug 
(good,  big)  horse  team,  and  headed  north  on  old  Grand 
River  trail.  I  got  out  on  the  big  prairie  near  where  I  had 
the  experience  a  good  many  years  before  in  a  "Boy's 
Wild  Ride — and  Wolves  after  Him,"  when  my  troubles 
began.  First  thing  I  knew  of,  off  came  the  tire  from  one 
of  the  hind  wheels  of  the  old  wagon,  and  I  out  on  the 

69 


SEVENTY-FIVE   YEARS    ON    THE    BORDER 

I 

high  prairie  about  two  miles  down  west  to  skirt  of  tim- 
ber, and  pondering  what  to  do.  I  saw  a  man  coming 
from  the  direction  of  the  timber,  and  waited  to  see  what 
he  could  tell  me  about  getting  out  of  the  bad  box  I  was 
in.  Luckily  for  me,  he  knew  the  exact  thing  I  wanted  so 
badly  to  find  out.  Pointing  west,  in  the  direction  of  the 
timber,  he  said  a  country  blacksmith  had  a  little  repair 
shop  there  and  could  set  my  tire. 

I  unhitched  my  horses,  riding  one  and  leading  the 
other,  and  went  down  to  the  shop.  I  found  its  owner,  a 
nice,  good  man,  who  loaned  me  his  wagon,  and  went  with 
me.  We  took  along  a  pole  and  board  to  prop  it  up  after 
raising  the  axle  to  relieve  the  wheel  whose  tire  was  off. 
We  put  it  and  the  loose  tire  in  the  wagon,  and  then  off 
for  the  shop.  Arriving  there,  he  soon  set  it,  and,  still 
using  his  wagon  and  team,  took  it  back  to  where  I'd  left 
my  wagon  and  camping  traps.  He  helped  me  get  the 
wheel  on,  charging  me  75  cents  for  all  this  work  and 
trouble.  It  was  nearly  night,  but  I  had  to  find  water  be- 
fore I  could  camp,  and  that  was  a  job  at  that  time  out 
on  the  high  prairie;  we'd  no  rain  for  six  months  and 
everything  was  as  dry  as  a  powder  horn.  There  were  no 
well  augurs  and  bored  wells  then. 

I  had  to  drive  a  good  many  miles  in  the  night  (but 
it  was  pleasant)  before  coming  to  a  house  where  I  could 
get  water  for  my  team.  Camping,  feeding  and  watering 
my  team  took  so  much  time  that  I  took  a  cold  meal  as  it 
was  too  late  to  build  up  a  fire.  I  was  up  early  in  the 
morning  feeding  my  team,  and  then  made  a  fire,  got  out 
my  cooking  outfit  and  dishes;  I'll  give  my  readers  an  in- 
voice of  the  kit — one  old  coffee  pot,  one  sheet  iron  frying 
pan  with  handle,  one  pint  tin  cup,  one  tin  pie  pan,  old 
rusty  case  knife  and  two  tined  fork  and  pocket  jack 
knife,  one  old  ax,  and  I  believe  I  had  along  a  revolver 
pistol,  but  am  not  sure. 

Now  for  the  "menu."  Broiled,  or  fried,  bacon,  sliced 
bread  with  bacon  grease  for  butter  (had  lots  of  sure 
enough  butter  and  eggs  later  on),  black  coffee,  brown 
sugar  and  a  little  water.    The  menu  was  not  very  elab- 


SEVENTY-FIVE   YEARS    ON    THE    BORDER 

orate.  The  decorations  not  quite  up  to  a  modern  coun- 
try club  spread,  but  an  appetite  like  an  early  day  wolf's 
made  up  for  any  little  deficiencies  in  style. 

I  was  on  the  road  pretty  early  as  it  was  so  awful- 
ly dry  that  the  middle  of  the  day,  even  in  June,  was 
very  hot  and  wearied  my  team ;  for  that  reason  I  started 
early  and  drove  late  when  I  could  hear  of  a  good  camp- 
ing place  several  miles  ahead. 

I  crossed  the  west  fork  of  the  Grand  River  at 
Groomer's  Mill,  through  old  Pattonsburg,  Bethany,  De- 
catur City  to  Osceola,  where,  at  evening,  after  I'd  lain 
down  in  my  wagon,  I  heard  the  plaintive  negro  melody 
of  "My  Poor  Nellie  Gray,  They  Have  Taken  Her  Away," 
sung  by  a  lot  of  young  people  in  a  house  near  by,  for 
the  first  time.  I  heard  it  a  good  many  times  a  little 
later  on.  I  didn't  then  realize  the  storm  which  was 
ready  to  break  over  our  devoted  heads,  of  which  that 
plaintive  song  was  only  a  monitor. 

Learning  in  Osceola  that  I'd  have  a  poor  show  in 
either  Indianola  or  Des  Moines,  to  sell,  or  exchange 
salt  for  money  or  flour  (owing  to  drouth  in  Missouri 
and  Kansas  and  failure  in  the  wheat  crop  so  flour  had 
gone  up  and  nothing  but  cash  would  move  it),  hence 
I  turned  northwest  headed  for  Winterset,  a  good  town 
at  that  early  day,  but  away  off  from  transportation,  St. 
Joseph,  Mo.,  being  the  nearest  railroad  point. 

There  is  a  big  rocky  hill  northwest  of  Osceola,  called 
the  White  Breast  Hill;  there  I  again  had  trouble.  In 
going  down  that  hill  with  locked  wheel,  one  of  the  box- 
ing in  the  hind  wheel  broke  (in  many  wagons  of  those 
days  there  were  two  boxes  in  place  of  thimble,  as  now). 
On  learning  that  there  was  a  roadside  blacksmith  shop 
not  far  ahead,  I  drove  to  it  with  the  broken  box.  The 
smithy,  having  no  extras,  forged  out  one  and  put  it  in 
the  hub,  which  answered  for  the  time,  so  I  drove  on 
headed  for  South  River  Mills. 

At  that  time,  those  water  mills  did  a  great  deal  of 
the  grist  work,  as  well  as  commercial  work.  These 
mills,  if  I  remember,  were  about  five  miles  south  of 

71 


SEVENTY-FIVE    YEARS    ON    THE    BORDER 

Wintcrsct.  On  arriving  at  the  mill,  I  called  on  the  pro- 
prietor telling  him  I  wanted  to  exchange  salt  for  flour. 
I  had  already  learned  that  he  was  operating  a  large 
grocery  store  in  Winterset,  and  would  probably  trade 
flour  for  salt.  He  wanted  salt,  but  didn't  want  to  give 
flour  in  exchange,  but  said  he'd  take  my  whole  load  left 
(I  sold  one  or  two  sacks  to  farmers  on  the  road,  and 
could  readily  have  sold  all,  but  they  had  neither  flour 
nor  money),  and  give  me  butter  and  eggs  is  exchange, 
butter  at  10  cents  and  eggs  at  5  cents.  I  traded;  it  was 
a  ground  hog  case,  and  I  had  to;  I  took  all  the  eggs 
he  had,  I  think  about  150  dozen,  and  had  to  take  the 
balance  in  butter.  As  hot  as  the  weather  was,  you 
can  guess  what  I  had  before  me,  125  miles  to  St.  Joseph, 
Mo.,  on  an  almost  boundless,  treeless  plain  a  great  part 
of  the  way. 

The  merchant  was  a  nice  man  and  assisted  me  in 
every  way  he  could,  to  pack  my  goods  for  its  pilgrim- 
age, putting  the  butter  in  clean,  tight  barrels,  so  in 
case  the  heat  melted  it  (which  it  did),  I'd  not  entirely 
lose  it,  and  packed  the  eggs  in  bran  (no  egg  cases  then). 
I  got  them  through  all  right  and  wholesaled  them  at 
10  cents  per  dozen,  doubling  their  cost.  Not  so  good, 
however,  with  the  butter.  Of  many  shades  of  color, 
it  made  a  rather  peculiar  blend  as  to  color.  I'd  like 
to  have  a  sample  of  it  now  to  submit  to  Dr.  Wiley1 
for  his  opinion  as  to  its  purity. 

Well,  something  had  to  be  done  with  it.  The  huck- 
ster I  sold  my  eggs  to,  told  me  of  a  great,  big  cold 
spring  on  the  Black  Snake  Creek,  which  runs  from 
the  northeast  down  through  town  (St.  Joseph),  and  a 
young  married  couple  of  Germans,  who  had  rented  the 
tract  that  this  spring  was  on,  and  he  thought  the  nice 
little  German  woman  would  help  me  prepare  the  butter 
for  market,  and  she  did.  I  furnished  lots  of  ice  and 
helped  her,  and  we  worked  like  beavers  one  whole  Sun- 
day, and  got  that  soft,  many  colored  stuff  in  shape  to 
■ell,  and  we  called  it  butter  and  sold  it  as  butter,  even 
if  it  was  not  up  to  the  real  Goshen  standard.     I  retailed 

it 


SEVENTY. FIVE   YEARS   ON    THE   BORDER 

it  at  the  market  house  and  the  little  German  woman  put 
it  in  rolls.  It  sold  like  hot  cakes  at  I2y2  and  15  cents, 
and  I  finally  found  a  hotel  man,  who  took  the  job  lot  at 
\2y2  cents. 

After  many  thanks  to  my  good  German  friends,  as 
well  as  liberally  compensating  them  for  helping  me,  with 
all  my  pockets  full  of  silver  money,  I  bought  part  of  a 
load  of  flour,  and  with  rested  team,  and  buoyant  spirits, 
struck  for  home.  After  paying  for  my  load  of  salt,  I 
think  I  had  about  $2.50  per  day  for  myself  and  team. 
However,  I  didn't  want  to  peddle  any  more  salt  or  butter 
that  season. 

I  might  add  that  on  the  day  I  traded  that  load  of 
salt  to  that  nice  Winterset  grocer  and  mill  man,  the 
news  was  flashed  from  Chicago  that  Abraham  Lincoln 
had  been  nominated  by  the  Republican  Convention  at 
the  Great  Wigwam,  and  I'll  further  remark  that,  later 
on  in  the  season,  in  company  with  several  other  stock 
men,  I  visited  that  "Mecca,"  the  immortal  birthplace 
of  the  Republican  Party,  so  far  as  results  go,  the  "Great 
Wigwam." 


CHAPTER   29. 


RURAL  ROUTE  NO.  1,  CAMERON,  MISSOURI. 

This,  today,  is  not  ancient  history,  but  fifty  years 
hence,  might  interest  some  one,  when,  possibly,  all  light 
mails  will  be  transported  by  flying,  aerial  transporta- 
tion. 

Thirteen  years  ago  I  concluded  we  had  as  good 
right  to  have  our  mail  delivered  at  our  doors,  as  Platte 
City  and  Maryville,  the  only  two  offices  at  that  time 
that  I  knew  of  which  had  rural,  free  delivery,  so  I  rode 
(no  automobiles  here  then)  up  to  Cameron  and  con- 
sulted with  postmaster  F.  M.  Filson  and  Attorney  A. 
J.  Althouse,  designating  the  present  route  No.  1,  which 
has  had  very  little  alterations  from  our  first  petition. 

73 


SEVENTY-FIVE    YEARS    ON    THE    BORDER 

Wc  were  called  optimists  by  our  friends,  who  said  we 
were  fooling  away  a  good  deal  of  valuable  time,  but  we 
paid  little  attention  to  that  kind  of  talk. 

Althouse  got  a  copy  of  the  law  directing  how  to 
proceed,  and  wrote  the  petition,  as  he  does  all  other 
business  intrusted  to  him  (so  far  as  I  know)  correctly. 
Next  morning  I  was  in  the  saddle  early  with  that  peti- 
tion, and  I  had  to  dig  up  the  rural  delivery  law  and 
explain  it  to  every  fellow  I  called  on  to  sign  my  peti- 
tion. The  first  man  I  called  on,  my  near  neighbor, 
would  not  sign  it  at  all,  saying  he  was  afraid  to  trust 
his  pension  papers  out  on  the  road  in  a  soap  or  cigar 
box.  I  saw  it  was  no  use  to  argue  with  him,  telling 
him  life  was  too  short  to  waste  any  time  trying  to  get 
a  man  six  miles  from  his  post  office  to  let  the  Govern- 
ment send  his  mail  every  day  in  the  year,  save  Sundays 
and  four  holidays. 

So,  away  I  went  and  had  no  difficulty  with  any 
other  man  on  the  route,  after  the  thing  was  explained 
to  him.  I  was  on  awfully  good  terms  with  my  Demo- 
cratic friends  that  day,  as  I  always  am  socially.  We 
could  agree  as  well  as  J.  P.  Morgan  and  Andy  Car- 
negie did  when  they  were  injecting  $600,000,000  worth 
of  water  into  less  than  $300,000,000  of  steel  stocks,  and 
brazenly  put  the  $900,000,000  of  watered  stock  on  the 
market  for  green  ones  to  bite  at,  and  they  bit,  and  the 
people  are  dancing  to  their  music,  as  well  as  paying  the 
fiddler,  the  decisions  of  the  Supreme  Court  notwithstand- 
ing. 

I'd  made  a  good  start  and  was  getting  ready  next 
morning  to  put  in  another  day  on  my  proposed  route, 
to  wrestle  with  my  neighbor  farmers,  who  were  nearly 
all  in  their  fields  planting  corn,  when  the  whole  scheme 
was  checkmated,  so  far  as  I  was  concerned.  I  was 
out  in  a  pasture  giving  some  directions  about  a  line  of 
fence  my  men  were  building,  when  a  vicious  Missouri 
mule  kicked  at  another  mule  of  the  same  nativity,  missed 
the  other  mule,  but  hit  the  rural  router  and  put  him 
out  of  business,  so  far  as  walking  out  in  the  corn  field* 


SEVENTY-FIVE   YEARS   ON    THE    BORDER 

and  making  the  usual  preliminary  book  agent  talk  to 
prospective  patrons  of  the  route.  Some  one  came  along 
in  a  buggy  going  to  town,  and  I  got  in  and  went  to  the 
post  office,  explaining  that  I  was  "hors  de  combat,"  while 
I  was  really  "mule  de  combat,"  and  was  down  and  out. 

But  we  had  the  thing  started,  so  Postmaster  Fil- 
son  and  Lawyer  Althouse  took  the  matter  up  where 
the  mule  kicked  me  off,  and  to  make  sure  of  success, 
both  went  all  the  way  to  Washington,  laying  the 
scheme  before  the  proper  officer  of  the  department, 
with  immediate  success.  Althouse  and  Filson  were  a 
good  team  then,  and  are  yet  when  "get  there"  is  the 
prize.  I 

Before  24  hours  after  their  arrival  in  Washington, 
it  was  flashed  over  the  wire  to  the  Kansas  City  Journal, 
and  almost  simultaneously  to  Cameron  and  Midway 
Place,  that  Rural  Route  No.  1  had  been  authorized, 
subject  to  usual  regulations.  I  and  my  friend  J.  Lake 
Jones,  had  just  a  while  before  built  privately  the  old 
Red  Top  telephone  line,  the  first  country  line  out  of 
Cameron,  hence  the  news  came  to  us  before  the  public 
generally  got  it. 

The  inspector,  Mr.  Rathbone,  established  our  line 
by  our  guaranteeing  the  building  of  a  bridge  or  two, 
which  our  good  court  cheerfully  did,  and  we  escorted 
the  first  rural  mail  carrier  to  the  farthest  point  of  his 
route  with  a  full  brass  band,  having  a  fine  dinner  at 
Deer  Creek  School  house,  where  the  writer  was  called 
on  to  tell  about  going  for  the  mail  50  years  ago,  in 
which  he  recounted  some  of  the  evolutions  of  the  postal 
business  for  100  years  previous,  including  the  efforts  of 
the  great  Postmaster  General  of  England,  Roland  Hill, 
for  penny  postage.  * 

Now,  12  years  later,  there  starts  from  Cameron 
every  (mail)  day  in  the  year,  8  rural  carriers,  two  of 
whom  are  using  fast  motorcycles  on  well  dragged  roads. 

In  this  connection,  I  may  be  pardoned  for  insisting, 
in  season  and  out  of  season,  on  the  use  of  the  King 
split  log  pattern  road  drag,  which  is  now  being  manu-* 

75 


SEVENTY-FIVE   YEARS    ON  THE    BORDER 

factured  of  steel  by  our  old  friends,  the  Dildine  Bridge 

Company   at   Hannibal,   Mo.,   which  do   excellent   work 
and  last  always. 


CHAPTER    30. 


MY  FIRST  TRIP  TO  CAMERON,  AND  COLONEL 
M.  F.  TIERNAN. 

Nearly  all  of  the  older  residents  of  Cameron  will 
need  no  introduction  to  Col.  M.  F.  Tiernan,  who  came 
with  the  first  business  people  to  Cameron.  I  think 
Col.  Tiernan,  when  I  first  knew  him,  was  one  of  the 
most  polished  gentlemen  of  the  old  South  that  I  had 
met.  A  genial,  witty  story  teller,  yet  suave  and  polite, 
almost  to  a  fault.  He  was  a  Marylander  of  (I  pre-* 
sume)   Irish  lineage,  and  I  think  Catholic  faith. 

'Twas  on  my  first  trip  to  Cameron  I  met  him  for 
the  first  time.  Cameron  then  consisted  of  an  old  shack/ 
which  I  think  has  been  torn  down  and  moved  and  re-* 
built  for  a  stable,  or  something  of  the  kind.  I  think  it 
stood  near  where  the  north  side  public  school  buildings 
are  now.  Why  I  recollect  the  little  shack  is,  it  was 
the  only  place  I  could  find  to  hitch  my  horse  that  damp, 
gloomy   November  morning. 

The  two  frame  buildings  had  recently  been  moved 
from  a  point  one  mile  east  of  town,  called  Summerville, 
and  abandoned  because  of  its  inconvenience  to  get  to 
and  from  the  country.  One  of  them  was  still  on  the 
trucks  with  big  capstan  still  anchored  on  the  prairie; 
there  were  no  streets  then.  The  other,  having  been 
moved  first  with  the  little  stock  of  goods  and  notions, 
remained  in  transit  for  shelter  in  case  of  rain,  the  store- 
keeper selling  goods  as  they  moved  when  wanted. 

After  securely  fastening  my  horse,  I  went  to  the 
■tore.  It  was  a  pretty  cold  day;  they  had  a  little  stove 
and  some  fire,  around  which  were  several  railroad  peo- 
ple, and  some  few  citizens  from  the  country,  like  my- 


SEVENTY-FIVE   YEARS   ON    THE    BORDER 

self  discussing  the  possibilities  of  the  new  townsite,  and 
the  probability  of  how  long  it  would  take  to  reach 
Cameron  from  St.  Joseph  with  the  iron  tract,  etc.  (It 
took  two  or  more  years  from  that  time.) 

The  proprietor  of  the  little  stock  of  goods,  hap- 
pened to  be  gone  that  day,  I  think,  to  St.  Joseph.  Mr. 
Summerville,  who  first  owned  the  goods  down  at  the  old 
townsite,  I  think,  had  just  sold  the  stock  to  a  St.  Joe 
man,  named  A.  T.  Baubie,  well  known  many  years  later 
as  Major  Baubie.  Col.  Tiernan,  being  a  friend  of  Mr. 
Baubie,  seemed  to  be  in  charge  of  the  little  establish- 
ment that  day.  Finally,  some  one  called  for  sugar;  I 
think  probably  it  was  myself.  The  Colonel,  shaking  the 
sugar  barrel  and  scraping  around  the  bottom,  said  there* 
was  no  sugar  in  the  barrel  worth  anything,  remarking 
that  the  proprietor  had  taken  several  teams  to  St.  Joe1 
to  replenish  the  stock.  Directly  another  customer  called 
for  a  plug  of  tobacco.  The  Colonel  scraped  around  and 
found  the  tobacco  also  was  used  up,  so  made  the  same 
explanation  to  the  tobacco  customer.  Presently  some 
one  called  for  a  gallon  of  whiskey,  whereupon  the  Colonel 
shook  up  the  apparently  empty  whiskey  barrel,  and 
hearing  nothing  but  the  rattle  of  soaked  tobacco,  burnt 
dried  peaches  and  other  refuse  stuff  in  the  bottom; 
turned  to  the  customer  and  crowd  generally,  saying,  "I 
declare,  out  of  three  of  the  most  necessary  things  of  life; 
whiskey,  sugah  and  tobaccah." 

In  closing  this  story,  it  is  with  profound  regret 
that  I  record  that  whiskey  proved  the  undoing  of  the 
genial  Col.  Tiernan.  He  went  down  and  down  to  the 
gutter,  finally  blowing  his  brains  out  in  the  Baubie 
Hall  one  morning.  On  his  wife  (the  splendid  woman 
he  had  married  late  in  life  in  Baltimore)  viewing  his 
dead  body  weltering  in  his  blood,  she  exclaimed,  "This 
is  the  end  the  damnable  saloons  have  brought  this  good 
man  to." 

Mrs.  Tiernan  was  an  estimable,  scholarly  lady,  who 
taught  a  select  school  of  higher  branches.  My  young- 
est daughter,  Maude,  was  one  of  her  pupils,  and  rec- 


SEVENTY-FIVE    YEARS    ON    THE    BORDER 

ognized  her  as  a  fine  teacher  and  splendid  lady.  She 
died  a  few  years  after  the  Colonel's  death,  leaving,  I 
think,  but  little  property  and  no  children  to  bear  the  dis- 
grace of  a  drink-crazed,  suicide  father. 


CHAPTER  31. 


THE  END  JUSTIFIED  THE  MEANS,  OR  KANSAS 
CITY'S  BIG  DRUNK. 

The  opening  of  Kansas  City's  Stock  Yards  occurred 
in  June,  1871.  At  that  time,  the  little,  one  story  box 
building  located  at  the  north  end  of  the  present  big 
yards,  not  far  from  where  wagon  loads  of  stock  are  now 
unloaded,  constituted  the  office  building. 

There  were  not  more  than  three  or  four  blocks  of 
lots,  most  of  them  pretty  strong,  to  hold  the  wild  range 
Texas  cattle.  This  occasion,  I  think,  was  the  first  Live 
Stock  Show,  there  being  a  premium  offered  for  car  loads 
of  range  cattle.  As  my  memory  goes,  the  Hunter  Bros, 
got  the  premiums.  They,  at  that  time,  were  handling 
lots  of  Texas  cattle. 

In  order  to  get  stockmen's  attention  turned  to  Kan- 
sas City  as  a  market,  a  big  banquet,  including  the  big 
drunk  spoken  of,  was  given  by  the  city  people,  stock 
yards  people,  and  all  the  big  trunk  railway  lines  finished 
from  east  and  progressing  rapidly  to  the  range  country 
south  and  west,  contributed  freely  to  make  a  grand 
spread  to  the  stockmen  of  four  states  and  several  terri- 
tories to  the  south  and  west. 

They  made  a  huge  success  by  sending  out  invita- 
tions with  free  tickets  to  all  the  known  shippers  of  stock, 
who  had  previously  been  trading  in  Chicago  and  St. 
Louis.  They  got  them  here,  and  got  lots  of  them  pretty 
drunk  at  that  free  lunch  banquet.  The  fact  is,  it  was 
the  biggest  banquet,  as  well  as  the  biggest  drunk,  I  ever 
saw.     It  did  the  business,  though,  and  from  that  pretty 

78 


SEVENTY-FIVE   YEARS   ON    THE    BORDER 

noisy  beginning,  the  biggest  Live  Stock  Exchange  Build- 
in  the  known  world,  and  second  largest  live  stock  mar- 
ket in  the  world  has  grown  up. 

Words  fail  me  to  describe  that  banquet.  It  was  in 
a  large  hall,  I  think,  on  Main  or  Delaware  Sts.,  about 
5th  or  6th.  The  noisy  crowd  gathered  in  the  street  op- 
posite the  banquet  hall,  and  packed  the  street  with  a 
good  natured,  jostling,  rollicking,  milling  conglomera- 
tion of  cow-boys,  ranchmen,  drovers,  feeders,  shippers 
and  last,  but  not  least,  conspicuous  were  the  Indian 
contingent.  They  milled,  jollied  and  yelled,  until  it 
was  announced  "grub"  was  ready,  and  such  a  rush  they 
made  to  that  sumptuous  feast.  Notwithstanding  the 
tables  were  capable  of  seating  several  hundred  at  a  time. 
I  can't  tell  how  many  times  they  were  filled. 

And  the  wine,  Great  Caesars!  I've  never  seen  any- 
thing equal  to  it,  and  it  was  of  an  excellent  quality. 
About  a  half  dozen  waiters  served  it  without  any  limit. 

One  old  Cherokee  Chief  seemed  to  be  an  especial 
favorite  with  everybody.  They  dined  him  and  wined 
him  to  his  heart's  content,  but  they  overdid  it  some. 
They  poured  it  into  him  until  he  limbered  up,  or,  rather, 
limbered  down,  and  the  last  I  saw  of  him,  about  six  of 
his  cowboys  were  carrying  him  down  and  out. 

I  got  tired  and  repaired  to  the  Coates  House  to  hear 
the  speakers,  several  from  Colorado  and  New  Mexico, 
beside  local  talent.  By  the  way,  some  of  the  local  tal- 
ent was  not  quite  so  full  of  the  "red  grape  barrow"  as> 
was  the  old  Cherokee,  but  had  enough  to  limber  up  their 
tongues.  I  think  a  Mr.  McCoy,  and  perhaps  Milt  Magee, 
were  some  of  the  natives  who  sang  of  the  coming  glory 
of  Kansas  City,  and  even  if  they  were  a  little  boozy, 
they  were  pretty  good  prophets. 

How  different  the  West  Bottoms  looked  then  and 
now!  The  street  from  the  Union  Depot  had  great  mud 
holes  and  big  stumps,  now  and  then  a  big  tree,  with 
little  frame  shacks  at  intervals.  Most  of  those  shacks 
were  dedicated  to  the  sale  of  booze.  The  old  State  Line 
House   was   the   hotel.     Some   of   tht   "Thirst   Shops" 

79 


SEVENTY-FIVE    YEARS    ON    THE    BORDER 

served  lunch  to  cowboys,  greasers,  loafers  or  anybody 
who  patronized  them. 

It  is  not  necessary  to  tell  how  this  locality  looks  at 
present.  Take  a  look  at  it  after  reading  my  very  im- 
perfect description  of  how  it  looked  then. 

JAMES  WILLIAMS, 

Cameron,  Mo. 


CHAPTER  32. 


B.  F.  DAVIS. 

Who,  that  lived  in  Clinton  County  twenty-five  years 
ago,  does  not  remember  this  tall,  long,  bearded,  genial, 
Democratic  politician  of  those  days?  Frank,  like  Davy 
Crockett,  the  hero  of  the  Alamo,  believed  strongly  in 
rotation  of  offices.  That  is,  when  Frank  had  served  the 
good  people  of  our  county  through  one  official  term,  he 
was  willing  to  let  some  other  good  Democrat  take  the 
vacated  office,  and  take  another  "higher  up"  himself. 

I  think  I  am  safe  in  asserting  that  Frank  nursed 
more  pretty  babies  along  about  the  election  campaigns, 
not  only  nursing  them,  but  succeeding  beyond  his  most 
sanguine  expectations,  in  convincing  many  a  Republican 
woman  that  her  baby  was  about  the  prettiest  that  he'd 
struck  in  the  county. 

Frank  kept  climbing  till  he  got  to  the  top  of  the 
county  office's  ladder.  Then,  it  was,  he  dropped  down 
and  out  of  politics,  and  struck  for  an  increased  clientele, 
hence,  better  wages.  He  went  into  the  live  stock  com- 
mission business  in  St.  Joseph.  Not  only  that,  but  has 
gone  into  publishing  a  periodical,  which  he  dubs, 
"Davis'  Yellow  Journal."  In  that  journal  he  introduces 
an  old  gentleman,  whom  he  calls  "Old  Man  Facts." 
The  picture  of  this  old  fellow  reminds  one  of  a  very  old 
gentleman  known  in  our  beloved  country  as  "Uncle 
Sam."  One  thing,  Frank  and  his  son  have  neglected 
to  blow  about  the  wonderful  advantages  their  "yellow" 
literature  offers  to  advertisers. 


SEVENTY-FIVE   YEARS    ON    THE    BORDER 


CHAPTER  33. 


FIRST  IMPRESSIONS. 

How  strange  it  is  first  impressions  in  our  early  in- 
fancy stay  with  us  through  life.  The  very  first  per- 
formance of  my  life  that  I  can  distinctly  remember  oc- 
curred in  Van  Buren,  (now  Cass  County)  Missouri,  about 
35  miles  southeast  of  Kansas  City,  near  Pleasant  Hill, 
as  I  have  said  several  times  in  this  work.  My  father 
was  a  Baptist  (not  a  hard  shell)  preacher.  This  event 
must  have  occurred  about  the  year  1839  or  40.  We  lived 
in  a  log  house,  I  believe  the  old  English  law  called  a^ 
man's  house  his  castle.  However,  this  house,  as  I  re- 
member it,  did  not  bring  to  mind  the  Castle  of  Belted 
Will  with  serrated  bastions  and  moat  and  draw  bridge 
in  some  ancient  forest,  but  it  was  only  a  plain  little 
hewed  log  house  on  the  claim  we  had  squatted  on  be- 
fore the  government  had  surveyed  the  land  and  subject 
to  the  famous  squatter's  sovereign  rights  of  that  day. 

My  parents  were  away  from  home  attending  a  re- 
vival meeting  in  the  neighborhood  and  a  cousin  of  mine, 
John  Williams,  who  was  about  four  years  older  than  I 
was  staying  with  me  that  afternoon. 

Now,  us,  Baptists  were  strong  on  immersion  and  us 
two  boys  having  baptising  on  the  brain,  (it  refreshened 
by  the  recent  revival),  concluded  we'd  turn  preachers 
and,  of  course,  had  to  baptise  our  converts.  Our  Jordan 
was  nearby.  "There  was  much  water  there,"  the  fact 
there  was  too  much  depth  in  those  prairie  holes  of  water 
for  our  depth  (we  tried  it  with  our  fishing  poles).  So 
we  had  to  strike  a  convert  that  we  could  trust  in  that 
deep  water  whether  he  had  repented  or  not.  So  look- 
ing about  us  for  a  proper  subject  we  discovered  a  great 
favorite  of  the  family,  in  fact  its  mascot.  The  family 
name  of  our  newly  found  convert  was  Thomas,  a  name 
that  reached  back  in  his  family  farther  than  history  or 
tradition. 

Thomas  didn't  altogether  approve  of  the  preliminary 


SEVENTY-FIVE   YEARS   ON    THE    BORDER 

proceedings  of  the  two  young  ministers — they  raked 
around  for  a  good  long  string  and  finally  found  a  plow 
line  (little  rope)  which  they  after  a  good  deal  of  coax- 
ing, got  Thomas  to  allow  them  to  tie  around  his  neck. 
(So  away  they  went  "Nolens  Volens"  like  a  good  many 
other  Christian  ministers  do  with  their  quite  young  and 
helpless  converts.)  Arriving  at  their  Jordan,  their  new 
convert,  it  seemed  was  about  to  go  into  a  fit  of  hydro- 
phobia. Tom  didn't  like  the  looks  of  the  water  and  like 
some  other  converts  squalled  and  scratched,  but  we  bap- 
tized him  just  the  same.  We  had  never  read  any  church 
dogmas  about  triune  immersion  with  face  downward 
which  is  believed  to  be  scriptural  by  many  good  chris- 
tians. However,  we  practiced  that  style  on  that  (for 
poor  Thomas)  fatal  day.  The  cat  hadn't  repented  but 
the  writer  remembers  he  had  some  reason  to  repent  when 
his  mother  next  morning  learned  of  Thomas*  tragical,  un- 
timely end. 


CHAPTER  34. 


CANNING  FRUITS,  MEATS,  ETC. 

It  may  not  be  known  by  many  young  people  that  the 
canning  of  fruits,  fish,  meats  and  vegetables  was  not 
practised,  if  even  known,  65  years  ago.  The  first  I  ever 
heard,  or  read,  of  such  a  process  of  preserving  fruits, 
meats,  etc.,  I  read  in  "The  Valley  Farmer",  I  think  about 
the  year  1856  or  '57.  The  paper  was  published  in  St. 
Louis  by  E.  K.  Woodward  and  Ephraim  Abbot,  who,  a 
while  after,  I  think,  sold  to  Norman  J.  Coleman  and  it 
was  merged  into  Coleman's  Rural  World,  which  be- 
came famous  during  Mr.  Coleman's  long  and  useful 
career. 

The  article  referred  to  went  on  to  explain  how  one 
Professor  Gamgee,  of  some  college  or  university,  had 
been  making  experiments  by  heating  the  fruit  to  drive 
out  the  air,  then  hermetically  sealing  it  while  hot,  prac- 


SEVENTY. FIVE   YEARS   ON    THE   BORDER 

tically  the  way  it  is  done  now  throughout  the  civilized 
world,  predicting  that  "Gamgeed"  fresh  beef  would 
finally  be  a  possibility,  if  the  learned  professor's  theory 
held  good  in  practice,  and  it  now  looks  like  the  professor 
knew  what  he  was  talking  about  when  he  was  explain- 
ing his  new  process  of  preserving  almost  anything  that 
we  use  daily,  salt,  perhaps,  excepted.  That  discovery 
should  rank  in  importance  with  the  invention  of  the 
cotton  gin  by  Whitney,  or  the  steam  engine  by  Steph- 
enson and  its  application  to  transportation  by  Fulton 
and  others,  its  use  being  about  as  universal  as  any  of 
those  great  inventions. 

I  also  can  well  remember  when  the  first  iron  steam- 
ship, the  "Great  Britain,"  landed  at  the  wharves  at  New 
York,  I  think  in  the  winter  of  1846  and  '47.  I  remem- 
ber her  dimensions,  length  and  beam,  and  ton  burthen, 
and  all  about  her  building  was  published  in  the  New 
York  Evening  Post,  which  was  taken  by  a  man  by  the 
name  of  Amos  Hart,  who  was,  at  the  time  staying  with 
my  parents  finishing  a  log  house. 

This  ship  "Great  Britain,"  should  not  be  confounded 
with  the  Leviathan  built  many  years  later,  the  "Great 
Eastern",  which  would  have  dwarfed  the  "Great  Britain" 
into  a  barge  or  yawl.  While  I've  not  gotten  the  ton 
capacity  of  the  "Great  Eastern",  but  think  it  was  the 
biggest  since  the  one  built  in  a  very  early  day  by  one 
"Noah",  the  passenger  capacity  of  which  was  eight 
souls,  bodies  included,  I  presume. 

But  for  passenger  service  there  is  probably  nothing 
in  the  known  world  equaling  the  great  "Mauritania" 
and  her  twin  sister,  "Lusitania."  I'd  like  to  have  seen 
a  model  of  one  of  those  monster  ocean  grey  hounds 
alongside  of  the  models  of  the  "Pinta",  "Santa  Maria" 
and  "Nina",  the  fleet  which  left  Genoa  with  Christopher 
Columbus  as  commander.  A  replica  of  those  three  fam- 
ous vessels,  it  will  be  remembered,  was  shown  on  the 
lake  at  the  World's  Columbian  Exposition  in  Chicago. 


SEVENTY-FIVE    YEARS    ON    THE    BORDER 


CHAPTER   35. 


WILLIAM    E.    CROYSDALE. 

Mr.  Croysdale  was  among  the  first  to  sell  goods  in 
Cameron,  having  married  a  Miss  Skinner,  whose  father 
was  a  very  wealthy  slave  owner  in  Platte  county,  and 
who  built  a  big  water  mill  on  Platte  river  in  an  early 
day.  Mr.  Croysdale's  house  was  on,  I  think,  part  of  the 
ground  now  occupied  by  the  older  college  buildings,  and 
all  of  Ford's  Addition  to  Cameron,  as  well  as  Ford's  new 
cemetery  was  on  the  Mrs.  Croysdale,  nee  Skinner,  tract. 

Mr.  Croysdale  sold  goods  quite  a  while  after  the 
war  broke  out,  but  his  wife's  people  all  being  large  slave 
owners,  everybody  considered  him  a  sympathizer  with 
the  Confederates.  While  this  may,  to  some  extent,  have 
been  true,  he  was,  nevertheless,  as  law  abiding  a  man 
as  was  in  Cameron  at  that  time. 

It  was  not  to  his  interest  to  be  a  rebel,  owning  as 
he  and  his  wife  did,  the  store  and  the  foundation  for  a 
fortune  in  real  estate.  Croysdale  was  smart  enough  to 
know  that  the  slave  business  was  done  for,  even  before 
the  Emancipation  Proclamation,  hence  he  was  a  Union 
man  for  pecuniary  reasons,  if  for  nothing  else,  just  as 
the  Confederates  were  for  the  property  which  was  in 
slaves,  if  for  nothing  else. 

There  were  a  good  many  pretty  rough  characters 
holloing  loudly  for  the  Union,  whom  Mr.  Croysdale  had 
some  reasons  to  believe  were  none  too  good  to  get  a 
lot  of  half  drunken  soldiers  and  raise  the  hue  and  cry  of 
"rebel"  and  loot  his  store,  of  which  there  had  been  an 
example  a  short  time  before.  I  refer  to  the  looting  of 
Mr.  Weatherly's  store,  of  which  I  can't  give  the  particu- 
lars not  being  present  at  the  time. 

Mr.  Croysdale  came  to  me  one  day,  saying,  "Wil- 
liams, take  this  store,  run  it  as  best  you  can,  I'll  pay 
good  clerks  and  bookkeepers,  and  you  need  not  put  one 
cent  of  your  ov/n  money  in  the  business,  and  take  half  the 
profits  for  your  time  and  influence,"  and  I  only  a  young 

84 


SEVENTY-FIVE   YEARS   ON    THE   BORDER 

man  without  any  business  qualifications  for  the  dry 
goods  and  grocery  trade.  I  took  the  matter  under  con- 
sideration and  consulted  with  mother,  as  I  always  did, 
and  took  her  advice  which  had  always  been  safe,  and 
stayed  with  what  I  knew  something  about,  i.  e.,  hand- 
ling live  stock  on  the  farm,  and  I  also  shipped  consid- 
erable of  grain  and  other  produce  as  well. 

Mr.  Croysdale  closed  out  his  store  and  moved  to 
Independence,  Mo.,  handling  several  farms,  and,  finally, 
going  to  Kansas  City  and  establishing  the  Croysdale, 
Vaughn  Grain  Company  in  the  Board  of  Trade  building, 
and  his  sons  are  still  there  doing  business  as  the  Croys- 
dale Grain  Company.  I  formed  their  acquaintance  while 
I  was  living  south  of  the  city  on  Holmes  road.  One  of 
them  bought  a  5-acre  tract  which  I  showed  him  and 
his  father  on  the  occasion  of  their  visiting  me,  and  on 
which  he  built  a  nice,  modern  residence  with  a  nice  large 
lawn;  I  gave  them  the  trees  which  are  now  ornament- 
ing that  beautiful  dooryard. 

Young  Croysdale,  finding  it  too  far  to  street  car 
transportation,  sold  it  to  Senator  C.  W.  Clarke,  who 
had  married  a  maiden  sister  of  his.  The  Senator,  a 
sturdy  Republican,  who,  when  the  dead  lock  occurred  in 
the  Republican  legislature  of  Missouri,  and  it  was  di- 
vided and  could  not  elect  either  Thos.  J.  Niedringhaus 
or  Mr.  Kerens  to  the  United  States  Senate,  opened  a 
headquarters  in  favor  of  Major  Warner,  who,  as  every 
one  knows,  was  elected  over  that  distinguished,  grand 
old  man,  Senator  Cockrell,  who  was  afterward  given  a 
place  on  the  Interstate  Commerce  Commission  by  Presi- 
dent Roosevelt,  as  the  best  available  Democrat  for  the 
position.  I  think  the  distinguished  gentleman  has  filled 
the  position  to  the  entire  satisfaction  of  all  parties. 

Senator  Warner,  ever  grateful,  recommended  State 
Senator  Clarke  for  collector  of  the  port  and  general 
manager  of  the  great  post  office  and  Government  build- 
ings at  Kansas  City,  which  office,  I  think,  he  still  holds 
under  the  Taft  administration.  He  now  lives  at  75th  and 
Holmes  Sts.  on  the  tract  young  Croysdale  bought  and 

85 


SEVENTY. FIVE    YEARS    ON    THE    BORDER 

l 

improved,  and  Mr.  Croysdale  lived  with  them  until  his 
death,  which  occurred  about  five  years  since.  The  writer 
has  had  some  little  dealings  and  acquaintance  with 
Senator  Clarke  while  living  at  Lonesomehurst  Park,  and 
found  him  a  very  affable  gentleman,  and  worthy  of  the 
high  office  he  fills. 

The  writer  was  well  acquainted  with  Mr.  Wm.  A. 
Vaughn,  who  was  the  genial  clerk  of  Mr.  Croysdale's 
store  when  he  sold  goods  in  Cameron.  Mr.  Vaughn  was 
an  ardent  adherent  to  the  Confederate  cause  having  mar- 
ried a  sister  of  Mrs.  Croysdale,  one  of  the  Skinner  girls. 
He  showed  his  faith  in  the  Confederate  cause  by  enlist- 
ing and  going  south,  and  stayed  with  it  to  Appomattox, 
and  came  home  and  acted  like  the  gentleman  that  he 
was,  and  always  greeted  me  when  I'd  visit  him  in  his 
office  in  the  Board  of  Trade  building,  with  a  cordial 
shake  of  the  hand,  always  inquiring  about  his  old  Cam- 
eron acquaintances.  The  last  time  I  met  him  was  at 
the  steamship  ferry  office  in  San  Francisco,  nearly  twen- 
ty-five years  since. 

I  was  going  across  the  bay  and  up  to  Santa  Rosa. 
A  gentleman  just  before  me  was  purchasing  a  ticket, 
I  being  next.  When  he  turned,  I  was  face  to  face  with 
my  old  friend,  Billy  Vaughn.  We  instantly  recognized 
each  other,  and  had  a  talk  while  the  steamer  was  cross- 
ing the  bay.  He  told  me  he  was  on  the  way  to  Sitka, 
Alaska,  (however,  not  that  day),  but  was  on  an  outing 
up  the  sound  and  insisted  strongly  on  my  going  along, 
which  I  regretted  that  I  could  not  leave  my  home  affairs 
long  enough  to  make  the  trip.  When  I  took  this  genial, 
good  man  by  the  hand  in  parting,  it  was  a  long  farewell. 
It  so  happened  that  I  never  saw  him  after  he  returned. 

On  one  occasion  at  Cameron  in  the  early  days  of 
the  war,  I  was  in  the  store  when  he  called  me,  saying, 
"Jim,  you  are  hustling  all  the  time.  Let  me  tell  you 
how  to  make  a  fortune."  "How,  Billy?"  I  said.  An- 
swering, he  said,  "Go  to  the  mouth  of  the  Kaw  river 
and  buy  some  of  that  swamp  land  east  of  the  river 
between  it  and  the  bluff  (which  is  now  known  as  the 

86 


SEVENTY-FIVE   YEARS   ON    THE    BORDER 

West  Bottoms),  and  if  you  live  to  be  an  old  man  it  will 
make  a  fortune.  I  replied,  "It  is  about  all  I  can  do  to 
keep  soul  and  body  together  here,  Bill,"  saying,  "If  you 
have  so  much  faith  in  the  land,  why  don't  you  buy  some 
of  it?"  He  replied  saying  he  did  not  have  the  money 
or  he  would. 

When  he  got  home  from  the  war,  he  did  just  the 
thing  he  advised  me  to  do,  bought  real  estate  in  Kan- 
sas City,  (however,  not  in  the  West  Bottoms),  and  when 
he  died  the  papers  said  he  left  an  estate  valued  in  the 
neighborhood  of  a  quarter  of  a  million  of  dollars.  I 
think  he  has  several  sons  in  Kansas  City,  but  I've  never 
made  their  acquaintance. 

When  many  years  after  I'd  visit  him  sometimes,  he 
referred  to  the  time  we  were  fighting  for  our  rights,  but 
not  with  the  usual  bitterness  which  was  common  at  that 
time  of  the  returned  adherents  of  the  "Lost  Cause." 


CHAPTER  36. 


THE  TRAGIC  DEATH  OF  W.  B.  LA  FORCE. 

The  La  Force  brothers  were  our  neighbors  when 
we  lived  at  Lonesomehurst  Park  south  of  Westport,  in 
Jackson  County,  Mo.  Mr.  W.  B.  and  his  brother,  B. 
F.,  the  financial  agent  and  real  estate  broker  in  the  New 
York  Life  building,  married  sisters,  the  daughters  of  a 
Mr.  Estill,  a  wealthy  real  estate  owner  of  Howard 
county,  Mo.,  who  many  years  ago  built  the  massive 
Estill  Flats  across  from  the  New  Coates  Hotel. 

Mr.  Wr.  B.  had  bought  the  100  acre  tract  located  six 
miles  south  of  Westport,  on  Wornall  road,  one  of  the  best 
improved  tracts  in  that  vicinity.  Mr.  W.  R.  Nelson, 
owner  of  the  Kansas  City  Star,  made  the  improvements 
for  a  fine  country  home,  as  I  have  heard,  but  got  into 
a  deal  with  Judge  Chrisman  for  the  Times  newspaper, 
and  Chrisman  put  it,  and  other  lands  on  the  market, 
and  La  Force  bought  the  100  acres.    He  had  an  ambition 

87 


SEVENTY-FIVE    YEARS    ON    THE    BORDER 

to  build  up,  and  had  succeeded  in  getting  together  the 
finest  herd  of  thoroughbred  Jersey  cows  probably  in 
the  country,  and  took  a  great  pride  in  their  breeding, 
and  his  dairy  had  probably  the  best  and  most  select 
clientele  for  its  products  in  Jackson  County. 

He  had  a  large  barn  fitted  with  all  kinds  of  ma- 
chinery for  preparing  feed  for  his  cows,  with  a  big  gaso- 
line engine  and  overhead  shafting  and  pulleys  for  driv- 
ing the  different  machines.  He  and  one  of  his  colored 
assistants  were  running  one  of  the  machines,  when  the 
driving  belt  came  off  the  big  engine  and  in  place  o£ 
stopping  it,  as  his  colored  man  suggested,  saying,  "I've 
put  it  on  many  a  time  when  the  engine  was  running," 
and  he'd  not  more  than  gotten  the  words  out  of  his 
mouth  (the  last  he  spoke),  when  the  big  belt  looped, 
or  hitched,  around  the  big  overhead  line  shaft,  jerking 
it  loose  from  its  fastenings  and  bringing  it  down  and 
striking  Mr.  La  Force  on  the  head  and  killing  him  almost 
instantly. 

Mr.  La  Force  had  several  nice  boys,  as  it  has  been 
my  pleasure  to  meet  them.  No  matter  when  or  where 
one  meets  them,  they  always  recognize  him  by  politely 
tipping  the  cap  and  speaking  respectfully.  They  are  at 
Harvard,  I  am  informed  by  their  uncle,  B.  F.,  and  I  pre- 
dict a  bright  future  for  those  genteel  behaved  boys,  and 
wish  them,  and  their  good  mother,  all  the  happiness  that 
their  good  conduct  and  surroundings  will  surely  bring  to 
them. 

Their  uncle,  B.  F.  La  Force,  is  a  fine  business  man, 
with  whom  I've  had  (for  me)  pretty  large  transactions, 
which  have  been  entirely  satisfactory,  and  I  can  cheer- 
fully recommend  him  as  a  first  class  man  with  whom  to 
do  business. 


CHAPTER   37. 


ERNEST    KELLERSTRASS. 
Who  has  not  heard  of  the  Kellerstrass  chicken  ranch 
at  85th  and  Holmes  St.,  Kansas  City?     I  am  quite  well 


SEVENTY. FIVE   YEARS   ON    THE   BORDER 

acquainted  with  Mr.  Kellerstrass,  and  have  had  some 
little  dealings  with  him,  and  have  found  him  a  fair  and 
liberal  man  in  a  neighborhood  deal. 

As  to  his  fine  White  Orpingtons,  they  tell  their 
own  story  at  the  shows.  Mr.  Kellerstrass  told  me  that 
he  sold  Madame  Paderewski,  the  great  pianist's  wife, 
five  young  pullets  for  the  great  sum  of  $7,500.00  which  a 
man,  who  was  working  for  him  at  the  time  told  me  he 
had  seen  Paderewski's  check  for  the  money. 

I  regret  to  hear  Mr.  Kellerstrass*  health  is  not  good. 


CHAPTER    38. 


MORGAN  BOONE. 

Morgan  Boone  lives  on  Holmes  Street  Road,  half 
a  mile  south  of  the  electric  line  at  85th  and  Holmes 
Street.  I  lived  four  years  a  neighbor  to  Mr.  Boone,  and 
found  him  a  fine  Christian  gentleman,  a  good  neighbor 
with  a  fine  wife  and  lots  of  goods  boys  and  girls. 

I  regret  I  cannot  mention  each  of  my  old  neighbors 
at  Lonesomehurst,  but  they  can  rest  assured  I  will  never 
forget  their  kind  treatment  while  living  there,  or  when 
I  visit  them  after  moving  back  to  my  old  beloved  home, 
Midway  Place,  Cameron,  Missouri. 


CHAPTER  39. 


SOME  THINGS  I'VE  SEEN  IN  THEATERS  AND 

SHOWS. 

Now  I  know  when  I  commence  to  tell  about  what 
strange  tricks  I  witnessed  in  shows,  my  friends  will  smile 
at  my  seeming  ignorance  of  sleight  of  hand  juggling, 
legerdemain.  Well,  I've  not  seen  it  all  by  any  means, 
nor  wouldn't  if  I  lived  one  hundred  or  more  years,  but 


SEVENTY-FIVE   YEARS    ON    THE    BORDER 

I'll  tell  what  I've  seen  that  looked  strange,  as  well  as 
felt  strange.  "Seeing  is  believing,  but  feeling  is  the 
naked  truth." 

On  one  occasion,  there  was  a  big  show  in  Chicago. 
I  went  in  the  side  show.  There  was  a  fair  haired  little 
woman,  who  was  loudly  proclaimed  by  her  chaperon,  a 
man,  who  said  she  could  tell  what  any  one  had  con- 
cealed in  their  hands,  or  pocket.  He  asked  any  one 
to  ask  her  what  they  had  in  their  hand;  however,  he'd 
always  repeat  what  the  party  said  who  asked  the  ques- 
tion. One  or  two  out  of  the  hundreds  of  others  asked, 
will  illustrate  what  I  am  trying  to  explain. 

One  person  asked,  "What  have  I  in  my  hand?" 
The  chaperon  repeated  it.  "A  watch",  which  was  true. 
"What  time  by  that  watch?"  She  answered  the  time 
indicated  by  the  hands  on  the  dial  of  that  watch.  I 
thought  I'd  test  her.  I  had  at  the  time  a  piece  of  paper 
with  a  name  on  it,  and  it  was  a  check  for  my  grip  left  at 
the  depot.  Holding  it  in  my  hand,  shut  up  tightly,  and 
down  where  the  man  could  not  see  it  (the  woman 
was  blindfolded  so  she  could  not  see),  I  asked,  "What 
do  I  hold  in  my  hand?"  (the  gentleman  repeating  the 
question).  "A  piece  of  paper,"  she  said.  "Has  that 
paper  any  value?"  I  said.  "Yes,  ten  cents,"  which 
was  the  price  I  had  to  pay  for  my  baggage  upon  presen- 
tation of  the  check,  and  dozens  of  others  asked,  who 
said  they  were  not  in  any  way  connected  with  the  show, 
and  had  the  same  experience. 

On  another  occasion,  being  in  Chicago  with  stock 
some  years  later,  not  more  than  18  years  since,  at  the 
hotel  a  lot  of  stock  men  after  supper  asked  the  host 
where  we  could  have  a  good  evening's  entertainment. 
He  told  us  by  all  means  to  go  to  a  certain  theater  (I've 
forgotten  the  name),  as  there  was  undoubtedly,  he  said, 
the  strangest  performance  by  a  little  woman  that  had 
ever  appeared  before  a  Chicago  audience,  and  was  the 
wonder  and  comment  of  all  the  newspaper  reporters. 

So  several  of  the  guests  went.  After  some  pretty 
fair  vaudeville  and  other  attractions,  the  strange  lady 

90 


SEVENTY-FIVE   YEARS   ON    THE   BORDER 

was  introduced,  but  first  the  proprietor  made  a  talk  tell- 
ing the  audience  of  her  wondrous  feats  of  strength,  at 
the  same  time  inviting  six  men  (he  wanted  six  big 
strong  men),  and  pledged  those  volunteering  to  come 
up  on  the  platform  of  the  theater  that  no  trick  of  any 
kind  should  be  played  on  them  for  the  amusement  of 
the  audience.  The  crowd  seemed  suspicious,  where- 
upon I  suggested  to  the  two  or  three  stockmen  who 
had  come  with  me  from  the  hotel  that  I'd  go  if  they 
would.  They,  after  some  hesitation,  finally  went,  and 
I  think  about  three  of  us.  When  we  went  on  the  plat- 
form we  were  offered  nice  seats,  and  the  platform  mana- 
ger didn't  have  much  trouble  in  getting  his  quota. 

He  then  told  us  why  he  wanted  big  strong  men, 
also  assuring  us  that  he  had  a  pleasant  surprise  for  us 
and  his  audience,  as  well,  saying,  "You'll  not  soon 
forget  what  you've  experienced  here  tonight."  And  I 
haven't.  I  think  the  first  trial  of  that  little,  feeble 
looking  woman's  strength  was  with  a  big  long  heavy 
pitch  fork  handle.  We  were  asked  if  we  knew  what  the 
handle  was.  Of  course  we  did.  "Now,  gentlemen,  stand 
in  line  here  in  front  of  the  footlights  so  the  audience  can 
see  this  little  lady  push  you  six  big  men  all  over  this 
platform  with  ease,  try  as  hard  as  you  may  to  push  her 
back  or  off  the  platform."  She  put  the  palm  of  her 
open  hand  on  the  rounded  top  end  of  the  handle,  and 
we  all  gripped  it  with  both  hands  and  braced  our  feet. 
When  the  word  was  given,  "All  ready?"  "Yes,"  she 
shoved  those  six  men  across  the  stage  apparently  as 
easily  as  one  of  us  could  have  shoved  a  baby  wagon. 
I  know  I  pushed  against  her  with  all  my  strength,  and 
the  others  said  that  they  did  the  same. 

Then  a  chair  was  gotten  and  one  of  us  sat 
down  on  the  chair  and  two  on  him,  and  she  put  her 
open  hands  on  one  of  the  front  rounds  in  the  chair  and 
lifted  the  chair  with  us  on  it  up  high  enough  for  the 
audience  to  hear  it  crack  when  it  came  to  the  floor, 
which  was  repeated  several  times,  after  which  a  good, 
long    green    hickory    cane,    made    from    a    hoop    pole, 

91 


SEVENTY-FIVE    YEARS    ON    THE    BORDER 

the  proprietor  said,  was  brought,  and  he  asked  us  to 
verify  to  the  audience  that  the  cane  was  what  he  claimed 
it  to  be,  which  we  did,  about  four  of  us  (all  who  could 
get  a  good  grip  on  the  cane,  at  any  rate),  took  it  in 
our  hands,  and  were  told  that  the  lady  would  twist  that 
hoop  pole  cane  into  a  withe,  if  we  would  grip  it  so 
tightly  that  it  would  not  turn  in  our  hands,  and  that 
she  would  only  lay  the  palm  of  her  open  hand  on  top 
of  the  cane.  She  twisted  the  cane  into  a  withe,  and  an 
Iowa  stockman  took  it  back  to  our  hotel  to  show  and  said 
he  would  take  it  home  with  him. 


CHAPTER   40. 


A  TOPOGRAPHICAL  SURVEY  IN   1846. 

In  the  spring  of  1846,  I  think  it  was,  a  topographical 
surveying  expedition  was  fitted  out  at  Fort  Leaven- 
worth by  the  United  States  Government  under  the  com- 
mand of  Lieut.  Emory  of  the  Topographical  Engineers, 
whose  report  to  the  Department  fell  into  my  hands  some 
two  or  three  years  after,  and  as  I  always  wanted  to  be 
an  engineer,  dry  and  uninteresting  as  those  official  re- 
ports usually  are  to  young  persons,  I,  at  that  time 
thought  the  Pacific  Coast,  especially  Oregon,  (we  didn't 
own  California  until  1846)  was  a  veritable  paradise  on 
earth,  so  I  becajne  intensely  interested  in  that  scientific 
report. 

This  expedition  started  from  Fort  Leavenworth  fol- 
lowing the  "Old  Santa  Fe  Trail"  across  Kansas,  then 
Indian  Territory  to  and  up  the  Arkansas,  past  Bent's 
Fort,  up  the  "Huerfano",  through  Raton  pass  down  to 
Las  Vegas  and  Santa  Fe  and  Albuquerque ;  thence,  strik- 
ing west  to  the  head  waters  of  the  Gila  (Hela)  River, 
past  the  old  copper  mines  vicinity,  giving  the  best  de- 
scription of  the  Navajos  and  Popo  Maricopas  Indians 
I've  ever  seen,  mentioning  the  Bill  Williams  Mountain, 
now   so   well   known    by   travelers   over   the    Santa   Fe 


SEVENTY-FIVE    YEARS    ON    THE    BORDER 

route,  crossing  the  Colorado  River,  and  up  the  Mojave 
country  and  Maricopas,  also  of  the  thieving  Navajos, 
as  well  as  the  wondrous  blankets  made  by  the  Navajo 
women  from  the  long  wool  of  their  numerous  flocks; 
crossing  part  of  the  Great  Desert  to  their  final  destina- 
tion, San  Diego,  California. 

Strange  as  it  may  appear,  I  learned  from  this  re- 
port how  engineers  arrive  at  the  altitude,  latitude  and 
longitude  by  scientific  instruments  and  the  fixed  stars, 
as  well  as  by  real  measurements.  Of  course,  I  could 
not  have  done,  or  made,  the  intricate  astronomical  cal- 
culations; however,  I  got  some  idea  how  (to  the  un- 
learned), those  apparently  impossible  things  could  be 
worked  out  by  triangulation. 

After  nearly  forty  years,  I  went  over  nearly  the 
same  route  as  that  survey.  I  was  some  better  prepared 
than  most  of  the  passengers  on  the  Santa  Fe  to  under- 
stand the  locality  we  were  passing  through  than  those 
who  had  not  studied  these  notes  made  by  scientists, 
and  that  report  has  been  more  than  verified  as  to  the 
mineral,  agriculture  and  stock  raising,  and  wonderful 
scenery  of  Colorado,  Arizona  and  New  Mexico,  as  well 
as  the  wonderful,  and  as  yet,  unexplained  mirage  of 
those  great  cactus  deserts  of  glittering  white  sand,  in 
whose  burning  wastes  so  many  have  since  perished. 

I  have  only  once  witnessed  the  mirage,  at  Mojave 
Station  on  the  Santa  Fe.  Plenty  of  people  exclaimed, 
"Oh,  look  at  the  pretty  lake  of  water  and  trees  on  its, 
shore."  I  knew  in  a  moment  their  delusion  from  the 
descriptions  in  that  survey  report,  and  other  books  of 
travel  across  deserts. 

When  that  survey  was  made,  Westport  was  the  last 
town  in  the  West  under  the  Stars  and  Stripes.  "Old 
Rough  and  Ready"  had  not  issued  his  famous  order  at 
Buena  Vista,  when  everything  appeared  to  be  lost,  "A 
little  more  grape,  Captain  Bragg,  a  little  more  grape, 
sir.*'  Nor  the  gallant  charge  of  Captain  May  at  Resaca 
de  la  Palma;  nor  had  the  heroic  Major  Ringgold  offered 
up  his  life  as  a  sacrifice  on  the  altar  of  his  country.    Nor 


SEV£NTY-FIVE    YEARS    ON    THE    BORDER 

had   the   "Xenophon   of   the   West"   made    his    famous 
march. 

It  was  along  about  this  time  our  country  began  to 
make  history.  There  has  been  more  accomplished  from 
that  time  to  this  to  ameliorate  the  condition  of  man- 
kind than  had  been  since  the  days  of  Greece  and  Rome 
in  all  their  glory.  And,  yet,  with  all  our  progress  in 
the  direction  of  bettering  the  condition  of  our  toiling 
millions,  the  demon  of  drink  has  kept  pace  with  all  of 
our  progress,  and  fills  the  streets,  grog  shops,  beer  guz- 
zling establishments,  called  saloons,  with  their  freezing, 
ragged,  starving  devotees,  on  those  awful  bitter  wintry 
nights,  defying  all  the  associated  philanthropists  to  re- 
lieve their  urgent  needs,  and  yet  these  same  people  want, 
or  tolerate,  the  source  of  a  great  part  of  this  suffering. 


CHAPTER  41. 


ISAAC  D.   BALDWIN,  THE  PIONEER   SETTLER 
OF  SHOAL  TOWNSHIP,  CLINTON  COUNTY. 

I  have  never  heard  it  questioned  that  Isaac  D.  Bald- 
win was  the  first  settler  in  Shoal  Township,  as  the 
township  lines  are  at  present.  He,  however,  had  some 
contemporary  settlers  in  what  was  then  the  limits  of 
this  Shoal  Township,  in  the  persons  of  Jonathan  Stone, 
Harvey  Springer,  John  B.  Gibson  and  a  few  others,  in 
what  is  now  Platte  Township. 

Mr.  Baldwin  settled  on  the  farm  now  owned  by 
Mr.  George  Henderson  near  a  good  spring,  now  on  the 
Mr.  Ed.  Rice's  place  near  the  Baldwin  residence,  about 
the  year  1830.  The  Baldwin  residence  was  at  the  cross 
roads,  east  and  west  road  from  Far  West,  (at  that  time 
in  its  zenith)  to  Plattsburg  and  beyond  to  Fort  Leaven- 
worth and  Weston,  which  at  that  time,  was  the  largest 
town  north  of  the  Missouri  River  above  Brunswick  ex- 
cept St.  Joseph,  Robideaux's  Landing  and  Trading  Post. 

Joseph  Robideaux  was  an  early  French  trader  with 


N 


SEVENTY-FIVE   YEARS   ON    THE    BORDER 

the  Indians,  whose  first  name  the  city  of  St.  Joseph 
bears.  I  have  seen  Monsieur  Robideaux  several  times 
in  my  young  days.  Many  of  us  early  settlers  did  a  good 
deal  of  our  trading  at  St.  Joseph,  as  it  soon  became  a 
good,  big  town,  and  was  the  nearest  Missouri  River 
point. 

But  I  digress  from  Baldwin.  The  great  highway 
from  the  Missouri  River  at  Liberty,  running  north 
crossed  the  great  trail  east  and  west  at  Baldwin's  place, 
and  for  20  years,  or  more,  was  the  most  public  place 
in  Clinton  County  outside  of  Plattsburg.  Many  more 
immigrants  passed  Baldwin's  place  than  Plattsburg. 

Isaac  D.  Baldwin  was  an  old  Tennessean,  and  swore 
by  the  hero  of  New  Orleans  to  the  day  of  his  death, 
which  occurred  in  February,  1849,  only  a  few  years 
later  than  the  old  hero's.  Baldwin  could  tell  some  amaz- 
ing stories,  as  could  many  others  of  the  old  pioneer 
hunters  and  trappers  of  those  days.  He  was,  for  many 
years,  justice  of  the  peace,  and  there  was  seldom  any 
appeal  from  Squire  Baldwin's  decisions. 

The  first  postoffice  in  the  present  limits  of  Shoal 
Township  was  at  Baldwin's,  and  Isaac  D.  Baldwin  post- 
master. I  wish  I  had  a  photograph  of  it  and  its  sur- 
roundings, to  present  to  some  historical  society.  Its 
name  was  Mount  Refuge.  Baldwin  nearly  always  kept 
a  barrel  or  two  of  whiskey,  and  any  one  could  buy  it 
by  the  gallon  for  25  cents,  but  its  sale  was  not  the  prime 
leason  for  keeping  it.  There  was  always  a  large  local 
demand  for  it. 

Mr.  Baldwin  heeded  the  injunction,  "Be  fruitful 
and  multiply,"  etc.,  as  he  was  the  father  of  16  children, 
all  of  whom  have  gone  from  this  vicinity,  save  one,  Mrs. 
Philip  Uhrich,  of  Cameron.  The  youngest,  one  of  his 
girls,  married  Anderson  Cameron  a  son  of  Elisha  Cam- 
eron, for  whom  Cameron  was  named. 

For  several  years  before  his  death,  Baldwin  kept 
a  cross  roads  store,  and  an  old  fashioned  sweep,  horse 
power  grist  mill,  and  I'd  like  to  have  a  picture  of  it 

95 


SEVENTY-FIVE    YEARS    ON    THE    BORDER 

« 

also,   as   I    have   not   language   adequate   to   describe   it 
and  its  products. 

Mr.  Baldwin  and  his  first  wife,  and  several  of  his 
children  and  a  few  others,  were  buried  on  the  old  home- 
stead, and  I  think  their  graves  are  now  desecrated  and 
entirely  lost  to  sight.  I  took  a  little  look  for  those  graves 
not  long  since,  and  I  felt  a  sigh  of  regret  that  the  most 
picturesque  character  of  our  early  settlers  should  be 
allowed  to  lie  in  neglected  graves  in  the  manner  in  which 
they  arc. 

When  Baldwin  died,  it  took  James  W.  Kirkpatrick 
three  days  to  sell  the  store  and  other  property.  Mr. 
Kirkpatrick  was  the  best  auctioneer  at  that  time,  I  think, 
in  Clinton  County. 

A  fatality  occurred  going  home  from  that  sale.  A 
Mr.  Chris  Harter  was  thrown  out  of  a  sleigh  and  killed. 
Mr.  Harter  was  a  relative  of  the  Harters,  who  have 
lived  many  years  in,  and  around,  Cameron. 

Another  fatal  incident  of  the  sale  was,  some  one 
disturbed  a  hive  of  bees,  which  came  out  in  great  num- 
bers and  attacked  a  horse,  a  big  stallion,  and  stung  him 
so  badly  that  he  died. 

That  Isaac  D.  Baldwin  was  one  of  the  most  pictures- 
que characters  who  has  lived  in  Shoal,  or  any  other  part 
of  Clinton  County,  will  be  admitted  by  all  who  knew 
him,  if  there  are  any  such  now  living. 

The  period  of  his  death  about  divides  the  old  from 
the  new.  I  regret  that  there  are  but  three  or  four  people 
about  Cameron,  who  can  attest  as  true  what  I  have 
written  of  this  old  pioneer.  Among  the  few  who  will 
remember  Mr.  Baldwin,  are,  Mrs.  Louisa  Kariker,  Mrs. 
Elizabeth  Newberry  and  Mrs.  Susan  Harris,  and  perhaps 
Jack  Reed.  JAMES  WILLIAMS, 

Midway  Place,  September  16,  1911. 

CHAPTER  42. 


HIRAM    STEPHENSON. 
There  are  but  few  of  the   early   settlers   who   will 
not   remember   Hiram    Stephenson,   who   settled    at   the 

90 


SEVENTY-FIVE   YEARS    ON    THE    BORDER 

head  of  the  little  creek  known  as  Williams'  Creek  in 
(History  of  Clinton  County)  about  the  year  1839,  and 
lived  there  until  within  a  few  years  of  his  death  about 
20  years  since.  He  was  justice  of  the  peace  for  many 
years.  He  was  my  wife's,  and  John  Stephenson's  father 
by  his  first  wife,  who  died  when  my  wife  was  a  baby. 

His  second  wife,  Sally,  was  a  daughter  of  the  late 
James  McBeath,  who  was  the  first  butcher  Cameron 
had,  killing  the  cattle  and  hogs  at  home  and  peddling  the 
meat  in  Cameron.  His  last  beef  was  always  the  fattest 
one. 

Hiram  Stephenson  taught  school  in  "that  first  school 
house"  in  which  I  was  a  pupil,  and  at  which  I  learned 
the  rudiments  of  Pike's  arithmetic  which  have  stayed 
with  me  till  this  day.  Mr.  Stephenson  was  a  born  mathe- 
matician. For  an  ordinary  problem  he  seldom  had  any 
need  of  a  slate  and  pencil  only  to  demonstrate  to  his 
pupils. 

He  was  a  man  of  strict  honesty  and  was  never 
known  to  prevaricate,  or  swerve  from  truth  and  justice 
and  fair  dealing,  notwithstanding  he  held  to  unbelief  in 
the  Scriptures.  It  is  a  pity  that  many  professing  be- 
lievers do  not  practice  those  sterling  qualities,  as  did 
Hiram    Stephenson. 

He  suffered  with  stomach  trouble  and  indigestion 
uncomplainingly  for  many  years,  retaining  his  pleasant 
good  humor  and  kindly  words  for  the  little  ones  to  the 
last,  and,  notwithstanding  his  bad  health,  lived  to  the 
ripe  age  of  80  years. 

He  was  a  native  of  Kentucky,  leaving  home  early 
in  life,  he  carved  his  way,  paddling  his  own  canoe.  He 
hauled  with  an  ox  team  native  lumber  from  the  Wabash 
River  to  Lake  Michigan  to  old  Fort  Dearborn,  while 
the  old  fort  was  still  standing,  to  build  nearly  the  first 
houses  in  Chicago.  The  site  of  Ft.  Dearborn  is  now 
marked  by  a  big  block  of  granite.  I've  stood  by  that 
stone  and  wondered  how  desolate  was  the  scene  in 
1812,  and  now,  100  years  since,  one  of  the  great  cities 
of   the   world   has   been   built   around   the   site   of   that 

97 


SEVENTY-FIVE   YEARS    ON    THE    BORDER 

lonely  place.  It  seems  strange  indeed  that  my  children's 
grandfather  was  among  nearly  the  first  to  furnish  mate- 
rial to  build  the  first  houses  in  the  great  city  of  Chicago, 
which  I  predict  in  100  years  more  will  be  the  third 
largest  city  in  the  world. 

Mr.  Stephenson  moved  to  Missouri  from  Fountain 
County,  Indiana,  in  an  old  fashioned,  hand  made,  Ten- 
nessee ox  wagon,  with  a  great  frame  bed,  as  they  then 
called  the  box.  It  took  a  block  and  rope,  or  about  six 
men  to  put  it  on  or  off  the  running  gear.  He  also  later 
brought  to  this  neighborhood  the  first  thimble  skein, 
Studebaker  wagon  ever  seen  in  this  part  of  Missouri. 

There  were  few  better  informed  men  in  his  day 
among  non-professional  people  than  Hiram  Stephenson. 
He  was  well  versed  in  ancient  history  as  well  as  modern, 
was  a  great  reader  of  current  news  and  Biblical  history, 
as  well  as  the  Bible.  He  appeared  to  be  informed  on 
almost  any  subject  on  which  one  would  question  him. 
I  could  nearly  always  learn  something  in  a  conversa- 
tion with  him. 

His  second  wife  raised  a  family  of  five  sons  (one 
little  girl  died  while  young),  which  are  now  scattered 
through  the  Western  states,  one,  Crittenden,  being 
dead. 

Hiram  Stephenson  was  a  good  collector,  but  a  bet- 
ter paymaster  never  lived  in  Shoal  Township.  Without 
an  enemy,  he  passed  away,  and  this  short  sketch  is  a 
tribute  to  his  memory  by  James  Williams. 

Midway  Place,  September  21st,  1911. 


CHAPTER   43. 


A  BOY'S  WILD  RIDE— AN  EXPERIENCE  WITH 

WOLVES  SIXTY-FIVE  YEARS   AGO. 
Along  in  the  fall  of  1846,  my  father  was  away  from 
home  preaching  for  a  little  flock  of  his  church  brethren, 
at   Brother  John    Osborn's,   afterwards   known   as   Vic- 

96 


SEVENTY-FIVE   YEARS   ON    THE   BORDER 

toria,  in  Daviess  County,  Missouri.  There  is  not  now 
a  vestige  left  of  that  old  town. 

Along  in  the  evening  on  Saturday,  my  youngest 
sister,  the  baby  a  year  or  so  old,  took  the  croup  (a  very 
severe  type  of  membranous  croup),  and  no  doctor  nearer 
than  Plattsburg  or  Maysville.  Mother  sent  me  for  two 
of  our  neighbor  women.  They  worked  heroically  with 
the  little  sufferer,  but  she  grew  worse.  Mother  turned 
to  me,  with  the  look  of  a  mother  over  a  dying  child, 
and  asked  me  if  I  could  find  the  way  across  the  prairies 
to  Mr.  Osborn's,  where  father  nearly  always  stopped 
over  night  (John  Osborn  was  the  father  of  Judge  J.  J. 
Osborn,  who  for  many  years  sold  goods  in  Cameron, 
and  now  lives  in  Colorado  Springs).  I  told  her  I  would 
try  it;  I  was  then  in  my  12th  year. 

I  remember  we  had  no  saddle,  and  I  had  to  make 
that  40  mile  trip  on  a  bare  backed  horse  with  an  old 
quilt  for  a  saddle.  About  sunset,  I  started  on  the  most 
lonesome  ride  of  my  life;  (there  being  but  one  house 
on  the  road  until  I  struck  the  Grindstone  Creek  timber 
1/2  mile  this  side  of  Mr.  Osborn  s).  I  struck  the  old 
Grand  River  trail  at  Brushy  Ford  near  the  McCartney 
Spring,  which  was  a  noted  camping  place  of  the  emi- 
grants going  north  in  great  numbers  to  settle  the  tim- 
bered regions  of  the  north  Grand  River  country.  I 
passed  on  at  a  lively  pace  over  the  trail  where  Cameron 
now  stands,  crossing  the  little  creek  half  a  mile  east  of 
old  Uncle  Billy  Read's  house,  and,  onward,  till  rounding 
the  head  of  Long  Branch  on  the  high  divide  west  of 
Mabel  station  on  the  C.  R.  I.  &  P.  R.  R.  I  was  think- 
ing of  the  panther  old  Mr.  Timothy  Middaugh  had  killed 
down  in  the  timber  half  a  mile  east  of  the  road  (I  think 
this  timber  is  now  in  Mr.  Charley  Wright's  feed  lot 
and  pasture).  This  panther,  the  last  and  only  one 
killed  that  I  know  of  since  I've  lived  here.  Of  course, 
I  felt  lonesome. 

99 


SEYENTY-FIVE    YEARS    ON    THE    BORDER 

"When  at  once  there  rose  so  wild  a  yell, 
Adown  that  dark  and  lonely  dell, 
As  if  all  the  fiends  from  Heaven  that  fell 
Had  pealed  the  banner  cry  of  Hell." 

— Lady  of  the  Lake. 

It  seemed  as  though  a  hundred  hungry,  yelling 
wolves  were  on  my  trail.  "I  was  mounted  on  a  mettled 
steed,  of  the  wild,  untamed,  Ukraine  breed."  With  my 
right  hand  I  held  the  rein;  and  with  my  left  the  horse's 
mane. 

My  horse  needed  no  urging;  it  seemed  to  be  fright- 
ened, as  well  as  I.  Wc  sped  on,  on  and  onward,  like 
a  winged  arrow  in  its  flight.  I  ever  and  anon  looking 
over  my  shoulder  expecting  to  see  the  whole  pack  with 
glaring  eyes  and  lolling  red  tongues  close  on  the  heels 
of  my  tiring  horse.  How  long  or  how  many  miles  I 
pushed  my  horse,  I  do  not  know,  when,  (oh,  horrors),  it 
occurred  to  me  that  in  my  fright  and  flight,  I  might  miss 
the  dim  wagon  trail  that  left  the  great  highway  which 
led  to  the  Iowa  territory,  Fort  Des  Moines,  and  beyond 
to  "Terra  Incognita." 

As  good  luck  would  have  it,  my  horse  seemed  to 
know  the  route  better  than  I,  the  horse  having  been 
over  the  road  more  times  than  I  had,  and  so  carried  me 
safely  to  our  goal,  arriving  just  as  the  worshippers 
were  getting  home  from  the  evening  meeting.  I  lost  no 
time  in  informing  my  father  of  the  baby's  dangerous 
condition  at  home,  20  miles  away.  Resting  myself  and 
horse,  probably  half  an  hour,  we  were  on  the  way  re- 
tracing that  long  lonesome  road,  arriving  at  home  about 
two  o'clock.  The  baby  was  better.  In  fact,  was  better 
than  I  was  after  riding  40  miles  on  a  bare  backed  horse, 
and  having  the  worst  scare  of  my  life.  The  father 
and  mother,  and  most  of  those  worshippers,  have  gone 
to  that  "bourne  from  which  no  travelers  return,"  but 
the  boy  who  made  that  wild  ride,  and  the  baby  are  still 
living. 

I  now  think  there  were  no  more  than  three  or  four 
howling  coyotes,  which  can  make  a  great  deal  of  noise. 

100 


SEVENTY-FIVE   YEARS   ON    THE    BORDER 

My  excited  imagination  did  the  rest,  but  I  will  say  this 
incident  on  my  memory,  is  like  some  great,  lighthouse  on 
the  dim  receding  shores  of  time. 


CHAPTER  44.  . 


BLOODED    CATTLE. 

The  Duncan  family  of  Clinton  County,  has  been  fa- 
mous for  fifty  years  for  its  blooded,  thoroughbred, 
short  horn  cattle. 

While  I  shall  not  go  into  the  history  of  the  business 
in  the  early  days,  I  would  respectfully  refer  any  one  to 
the  History  of  Clinton  County,  page  387,  for  early  his- 
tory of  the  business.  I  here  add  that  I  have  had  more 
or  less  acquaintance  with  nearly  every  name  mentioned 
of  those  early  enthusiasts  for  better  blood.  However,  in 
this  little  work,  I  can  mention  only  a  very  few. 

Stephen  and  his  brother,  Joseph  Duncan,  are  the 
first  short  horn  cattle  breeders,  who  brought  thorough- 
bred cattle  to  the  north  central  part  of  the  county. 
I  knew  those  two  gentlemen  quite  well  in  my  young 
days,  and  I  am  glad  to  pay  this  small  tribute  to  their 
memory.  I've  never  in  my  long  life,  known  two  men, 
whose  word  was  more  implicitly  relied  upon,  than 
Stephen's  and  Uncle  Joe's  was.  A  short  horn  from  Uncle 
Joe's  herd  hardly  needed  a  pedigree ;  everybody  knew  he 
didn't  offer  anything  which  was  not  good.  While  I 
am  not  personally  acquainted  with  his  son,  Joseph,  Jr.,  I 
understand  the  mantle  of  the  father  has  fallen  on  the 
son.  I  am  somewhat  better  acquainted  with  Mr.  H.  C. 
Duncan  than  any  member  of  Uncle  Stephen's  family, 
while  I've  had  some  acquaintance  with  all  the  brothers 
of  this  good  family. 

I  think  I  can  truthfully  say,  that  Clay  Duncan  has 
probably  done  more  to  disseminate  good,  blooded  cattle 
throughout  the  West  than  any  other  one  man  in  Clinton 
County,  and,  unlike  trust  robbers,  has  accumulated  a 

101 


SEVENTY-FIVE   YEARS   ON    THE    BORDER 

— — — — ^— ^— — ^— — — — — — __— ______^^_^__ — ___ 

good  competence  for  himself,  while  at  the  same  time 
he  was  a  benefactor  to  all  his  patrons  and  the  public 
generally,  as  well  as  a  credit  to  the  community  in  which 
his  life,  work  was  cast.  I  have  known  Clay  Duncan 
from  bbyHood.  *  We  both  commenced  handling  stock 
about  the  same  time,  and  I've  had  many  deals  with  him 
In  our  younger'  days,  and  have  never  known  him  to 
swerve  one  jot  from  an  agreement. 

He  has  always  been  a  strong  advocate  of  temper- 
ance and  practiced  what  he  advocated.  So  far  as  I 
know,  all  of  those  good  Duncan  families  have  kept  the 
"faith  once  delivered  to  the  saints/'  as  advocated  by 
Alexander  Campbell,  Moses  E.  Lard  and  other  promin- 
ent leaders  of  the  Christian  Church.  A  pity  it  is  that 
every  community  has  not  more  of  the  Duncan  kind  of 
citizenship  in  it. 


CHAPTER  45. 


HOW  NEAR  I  CAME  TO  BEING  KILLED  BY 
FALLING  TREES. 

It  would  seem  to  one  a  little  superstitious,  that  some 
good  angel  guardian  had  watched  over  me  through  my 
long,  and  to  some  extent,  adventurous  life,  or  I'd  not 
be  here  telling  about  it  at  nearly  80  years  of  age. 

We  had  only  one  old  log  stable,  our  old  round  log 
house  moved  back  for  horses,  when  my  father  built  the 
double  hewed  log  house  with  double  stack  stone  chim- 
neys, with  wide  fire  places  opening  in  each  room,  at 
that  time  thought  to  be  just  the  thing  for  elegance, 
convenience  and  comfort,  of  course.  Their  cost  was  not 
in  fuel,  "wood",  we  called  it,  which  was  so  plentiful 
it  was  (lots  of  it)  burnt  in  great  log  heaps  while  clear- 
ing the  first  farms  in  the  timber. 

It  was  in  the  winter  of  1855  and  1856  we  decided 
we  wanted  a  better  barn  and  stables  than  the  old  log 
house  and  log  corn  crib  with  driveway  and  wagon  shed 


SEVENTY-FIVE   YEARS   ON    THE    BORDER 

between.  However,  these  were  a  good  deal  better  than 
some  of  our  neighbors  had,  but  we  wanted  a  frame  stable 
with  some  room  above  for  hay.  I  made  some  plans  and 
went  to  work  hewing  timber  in  our  fine  white  oak  woods 
tract  for  this  building,  and  long  about  mid-winter 
there  came  quite  a  deep  snow,  probably  10  to  12  inches. 
As  the  O'Donnell  water  power  saw  mill  (which  I  have 
mentioned  before)  was  finished  with  a  good  prospect  for 
plenty  of  water  to  drive  the  machinery,  we  decided  to 
cut  a  lot  of  logs  to  finish  our  proposed  barn. 

On  a  quite  cold  day,  my  brother  and  I  were  cutting 
down  a  big  Cottonwood  tree  about  40  feet  to  first  limb, 
and  nearly  three  feet  in  diameter  at  the  stump.  This  tree 
stood  nearly  plumb,  and  one  could  hardly  tell  which  way 
it  would  fall  as  it  was  in  a  low  bottom  and  very  little 
wind,  so  we  chopped  away  watching  the  tree  closely  to 
see  which  way  it  would  fall.  I  had  selected  a  bunch  of 
sycamore,  small  like  trees,  which  had  grown  up  around 
on  old  snag  of  a  former  tree  which  stood  about  20  yards 
due  north  of  the  tree  we  were  cutting.  I  was  going 
to  hide  behind  this  bunch  of  trees,  if  the  tree  should 
fall  to  the  south,  to  keep  any  frozen  limbs  from  falling 
on  me,  as  I  was  on  the  north  side  of  the  tree.  It  was 
so  nearly  balanced  that  every  little  breeze  would  seem 
to  start  it,  first  north  then  south.  We  kept  chopping 
notwithstanding  it  appeared  to  be  nearly  cut  off  at  the 
stump.  It  commenced  cracking  a  little.  On  looking 
up  at  it  to  be  sure  which  way  it  was  going,  it  appeared 
to  be  going  to  the  south.  I  told  my  brother  to  look 
out  it  was  going  south,  and  started  for  my  little  bunch 
of  trees  which  stood  right  in  line  the  way  the  tree  was* 
falling.  My  brother,  stepping  back  a  few  yards,  on 
looking  up  at  the  falling  tree,  yelled,  "Get  out,  the 
tree  is  coming  on  to  you. 

Quick  as  thought,  I  jumped  squarely  to  the  one 
side,  and  had  hardly  gotten  10  feet  away  before  the 
big  tree  crashed  down,  the  big  log  body  of  the  tree  fall- 
ing exactly  in  the  tracks  I  had  made  in  the  snow  two 
seconds  before,  and  smashing  the  little  clump  of  syca- 

103 


SEVENTY-FIVE    YEARS    ON    THE    BORDER 

— ; 

more  trees,  which  I  had  started  to  get  behind,  into 
splinters,  and,  today,  56  years  after,  there  is  another 
clump  of  sycamores  which  have  grown  up  where  that 
big  cottonwood  smashed  those  on  that  cold  day.  I  can 
now  show  some  boards  which  were  sawed  from  that 
log,  and  the  barn  with  several  additions,  stands  just 
across  the  road  west  of  my  residence,  in  good  shape, 
and  looks  as  if  it  would  stand  100  years  yet,  if  kept 
dry. 

On  another  occasion,  several  years  before  this  oc- 
currence, I  was  helping  my  Uncle  William  (Bill  Wil- 
liams) cut  some  house  logs  in  a  little  bottom  just  west 
of  the  big  arch  bridge  across  Shoal  Creek,  four  miles 
south  of  Cameron.  Just  west  of  that  is  an  almost  perpen- 
dicular cliff,  which  is  a  sheer  precipice  of  100  or  more 
feet,  the  highest  in  North  Missouri,  which  I  have  seen. 
Our  tree  fell  on  another  (a  sycamore)  knocking  a  limb 
off  of  it  big  enough  to  kill  an  elephant,  which  fell 
within  two  feet  of  me.  Had  it  struck  me  on  the  head,  I 
would  never  have  known  what  hurt  me. 

On  another  occasion  several  years  after  both  of 
these  escapes  from  being  killed,  I  and  many  of  the 
neighbors  were  helping  Mr.  John  R.  Miner  (Uncle* 
Jack)  to  raise  a  big  log  barn  or  stable.  The  logs  had 
been  cut  in  summer  time  and  pealed;  they  were  hickory 
and  awfully  heavy  and  slick,  and  were  about  20  or  more 
feet  long.  Mr.  Price  Harlin  and  I,  I  think,  were  on 
the  west  corners  carrying  them  up,  as  we  called  notch- 
ing and  saddling  the  logs,  a  kind  of  rude  dovetailing 
of  them,  to  make  them  hold  the  building  together.  The 
young  men  of  today  won't  understand  what  I  am  trying 
to  explain,  but  the  old  fellows  will. 

After  we'd  gotten  the  building  nearly  all  up  except 
one  or  two  rounds,  it  got  very  high  and  dangerous  to 
stand  on  those  round,  humpy,  slick  logs  and  chop.  The 
most  of  the  logs  had  been  hauled  on  the  highest  ground 
on  the  east  side,  and  were  put  up  from  that  side  by  the 
men  on  the  ground  and  rolled  over  with  pike  poles. 
The  hump  of  a  lo<*  was  always  left  up  when  finished 

104 


SEVENTY. FIVE   YEARS    ON    THE    BORDER 

(if  they  were  humpy,  which  these  were).  The  log  came 
rolling  toward  Mr.  Harlin  and  me,  hump,  hump,  hump, 
passing  over  the  highest  part  of  the  side  logs  on  which 
it  was  rolling  and  coming  on  to  us.  The  men  on  the 
ground  laughing  and  telling  backwoods  jokes,  paid  very 
little  attention  to  the  log  and  the  few  who  were  rolling  it. 
It  kept  humping  over  and  over;  finally  I  got  ready  to 
jump,  for  if  it  had  rolled  over  twice  more  it  would  knock 
both  Mr.  Harlin  and  me  off  the  building,  and  would 
probably  have  killed  both  of  us,  as  it  was  a  big  log  and 
about  20  feet  to  the  ground,  but  it  fortunately  stopped  in 
time  to  save  us.  I  didn't  notch  that  log  down,  nor  any 
other  at  a  public  house  raising.  I  came  down  and  told 
that  noisy,  joking  crowd  just  what  I  thought  of  their 
carelessness,  and  I've  never  carried  up  another  corner 
from  that  time  to  this.  However,  I  think  that  was  the 
last  house  raising  in  the  neighborhood  and  it  was  never 
finished,  rotting  down  in  war  times,  and  a  frame  built  in 
its  stead. 

I  am  aware  these  stories  are  not  very  interesting  to 
many.  However,  I  give  them  as  part  of  the  experience 
of  the  pioneers,  which  is  gone  forever  in  this  land. 


CHAPTER  46. 


THE  OLD  FASHIONED  SPELLING  SCHOOL  OF 
SIXTY  YEARS  AGO. 

This  little  work  would  be  incomplete  without  men- 
tioning our  "spelling  bees,"  which  occurred  usually  in  fall 
and  winter  time  while  the  schools  were  in  session. 

We  had  at  that  early  day  some  excellent  spellers 
judging  them  by  the  standard  of  Webster's  Elementary 
spelling  book,  the  old  blue  backed  book,  so  dear  to  the 
hearts  of  the  few  of  us  now  left. 

These  spelling  matches  were  usually  held  in  some 
private,  big,  log  house  that  had  a  great  wide  fire  place 
with  a  rousing  hickory  log  fire,  if  the  weather  was  very 

105 


SEVENTY-FIVE   YEARS    ON    THE    BORDER 

cold;  if  it  was  not  much  cold,  the  boys  and  girls  would 
sit  close  together  so  that  they  needed  little  fire.  The 
door  of  those  log  cabins  usually  stood  open  in  the  day 
time  to  give  light;  there  was  ample  ventilation  through 
chinks  and  cracks  when  closed  at  night.  Tallow  candles 
were  used  in  lighting  them. 

The  youngsters  for  miles  around  would  all  know  of 
the  spelling;  they  got  the  news  then  as  well  as  now,  if 
we  didn't  have  telephones.  When  all  were  there  (es- 
pecially the  good  spellers),  they'd  appoint  a  teacher, 
usually  Mr.  John  S.  Well,  whom  I  have  mentioned  be- 
fore as  being  the  best  speller  in  the  state,  and  I  think  I 
was  right.  No  one  was  willing  to  spell  on  the  opposite 
side  if  Mr.  Wells  was  an  opponent,  so  he  good  naturedly 
consented  to  pronounce  the  words  and  keep  order.  No 
trouble  to  keep  order  where  love  rules,  and  we  all  loved 
John  Wells,  and  some  of  us  would  have  liked  to  have 
loved  one  of  his  sisters,  had  she  been  willing. 

"In  peace  Love  tunes  the  shepherd's  reed, 

In  war  he  mounts  the  warrior's  steed; 

In  halls  in  gay  attire  is  seen, 

In  hamlets  dances  on  the  green. 

Love  rules  the  court,  the  camp,  the  grove, 

And  men  below  and  Saints  above; 

For   Love   is   Heaven,    and   Heaven   is    Love." — Scott. 

Usually  two  young  ladies  would  "choose  up",  as 
we  call  it.  These  ladies  always  knew  the  good  spellers. 
After  many  little  "tete-a-tetes"  and  soft  nothings  being 
whispered  in  the  ears  of  girls  by  their  admirers,  the  lead- 
ers of  each  side  would  cast  lots  for  choice  of  spellers 
(quite  an  advantage)  by  one  of  them  taking  a  broom 
stick,  or  ramrod  of  some  old  gun  (which  was  always 
present  in  those  days),  and,  tossing  it  up,  the  other  girl 
would  catch  it  at  any  point  she  pleased,  firmly  in  her 
hand,  then  they'd  measure  the  length  of  that  stick  by  the 
girl,  who  tossed  the  stick  up,  taking  hold  just  above  the 
other  girl's  hand,  and  vice  versa  until  the  top  of  the  stick 
was  reached,  and  the  one  having  the  top  of  the  stick  was 
expected  to  have  firm  enough  hold  of  it  to  throw  it  over 
her  head.     In  case  there  was  any  question  raised  about 

106 


SEVENTY-FIVE   YEARS   ON    THE    BORDER 

her  having  a  very  uncertain  hold  on  it,  the  one  having  the 
last  hold  as  described,  got  the  first  choice. 

Then  every  one  present  was  expecting  to  hear  the 
victor  say,  in  her  most  pleasing  voice,  Til  take  Mr.  Abe 
Smith,"  the  other,  "I'll  take  Mr.  Hiram  Wilhoit,"  then, 
'Til  take  Mr.  James  Williams,"  but  a  few  years  later 
this  choice  would  have  been — Til  take  Mr.  Abram  Wat- 
son." I  have  omitted  to  say  that  some  of  the  very  best 
spellers  of  that  day  were  away  off  to  one  side  out  of 
reach  of  most  of  those  spelling  matches,  and  were  not 
very  well  known  or  first  choice  would  have  been,  "I'll 
take  Mr.  T.  J.  McBeath",  "I'll  take  Miss  Elizabeth  J. 
Stephenson."  This  good  young  lady  died  about  the  time 
these  spelling  schools  were  in  the  zenith  of  their  popu- 
larity. She  was  the  sister  of  the  writer's  wife.  When  the 
war  came,  they  were  abandoned,  never  to  be  revived. 

In  this  connection,  I  might  be  pardoned  for  narrating 
a  spelling  contest  in  which  I  participated  during  the  win- 
ter of  1849  and  '50,  in  Cass  County,  Missouri,  near 
Pleasant  Hill.  I  am  not  egotistical  enough  to  parade  my 
own  acts  before  posterity  more  than  to  illustrate  what 
tribulation,  suffering  and  inconvenience  of  the  pioneers 
of  those  days,  who  hungered  for  a  little  knowledge 
(called  "book  larnin'"  by  the  old  backwoodsman). 

As  frequently  stated  before,  my  father  died  in  the 
fall  of  1848,  and  I  was  a  good,  big  boy  of  14  years  and 
thirsting  for  a  little  of  the  rudiments  of  a  common  educa- 
tion; i.  e.,  "Readin',  spellin'  writin'  and  'rithmetic."  My 
father  had,  at  the  time  of  which  I  write,  three  brothers 
and  two  sisters  living  in  Cass  County,  from  whence  we 
had  moved  a  few  years  before.  Father's  oldest  brother, 
Uncle  James,  for  whom  I  was  named,  and  his  oldest  son, 
Luke,  a  family  name  for  generations,  came  over  to  Clin- 
ton County  to  see  how  my  mother  was  getting  along, 
which  was  very  poorly.  However,  she  would  have  en- 
dured any  privation  short  of  starving  and  freezing  that 
her  children  might  get  a  little  elementary  education,  if 
nothing  more. 

As  there  was  to  be  no  school  at  home  that  winter, 

107 


SEVENTY-FIVE   YEARS   ON    THE    BORDER 

Uncle  James  insisted,  and  mother  finally  consented,  to 
let  me  go  home  with  them.  I  think  we  had  less  than 
$5.00  in  the  house  at  that  time.  'Twas  November  and 
very  little  had  been  raised  that  year,  the  first  that  we 
had  tried  farming  since  my  father's  death.  I  was  nearly 
barefooted  and  had  one  every  day  suit  of  homespun  and 
one  for  Sunday,  no  difference  in  quality  of  goods,  only 
one  was  worn  more  than  the  other.  I  had  an  overcoat 
left  by  my  father,  which  did  good  service  that  cold  win- 
ter, keeping  me  from  freezing  in  the  little  cold  bed  room 
in  one  corner  of  an  outside  porch,  weather  boarded  with 
only  split  clap  boards,  as  we  called  this  split  and  shaved 
weather  boarding. 

To  make  up  for  all  our  poverty,  we  had  the  courage 
of  the  Crusaders,  and  knew  no  such  word  as  "can't." 
The  day  before  we  had  set  to  start,  my  younger  sister 
rolled  down  off  a  high  pile  of  long  fire  wood  and  striking 
a  sharp  timber,  cutting  a  vein  came  near  bleeding  to 
death.  Frequently  there  were  no  doctors  nearer  than 
20  miles  those  days.  Nearly  all  the  older  men,  and 
women,  too,  had  some  practical  ideas  of  surgery,  such  as 
stopping  flow  of  blood  by  bandaging  above  the  artery, 
but  in  this  case  no  bandage  could  be  applied,  so  we  used 
cold  water  to  clot  the  blood,  and  an  ooze  of  oak  bark  for 
an  astringent,  which  finally  stopped  the  bleeding,  or  it 
stopped  of  itself,  more  than  likely. 

To  make  matters  worse,  one  of  my  Uncle's  horses 
had  jumped  over  out  of  the  rail  lot  fence  (everybody 
traveled  horseback;  no  spring  wagons  or  buggies  then, 
only  in  the  larger  river  towns).  The  horse  swam  the 
Missouri  River  at  Blue  Mill  Landing,  south  of  Liberty, 
and  was  caught  by  the  ferryman,  who  remembered  hav- 
ing crossed  it  ten  days  before.  In  a  day  or  two  sister 
was  up  running  around,  so  mother  gave  me  enough 
money  to  buy  a  pair  of  very  cheap  shoes  at  Haynesville, 
and  sent  my  only  little  brother  to  help  us  as  far  as  old 
Bro.  Haynes,  near  Haynesville,  when  he  returned  to  our 
desolate  home  and  mother,  to  get  through  the  cold  win- 
ter as  best  they  could.     This  left  us  with  three  men  and 

108 


SEVENTY-FIVE   YEARS   ON    THE   BORDER 

one  horse  and  two  saddles;  we  found  out  on  that  trip 
what  "ride  and  tie"  meant.  In  our  case  it  meant  walk 
most  of  the  time,  but  we  were  elated  when  we  found  the 
horse  with  the  good  ferryman  on  the  south  side  of  the 
river  at  old  Wayne  City,  or  near  there. 

I  will  mention  that  on  this  trip  the  second  night  out 
we  stayed  at  a  farm  house,  which  was  situated  on  the 
Blue  Mill  battle  ground  many  years  after.  When  on  the 
battle  ground  the  next  day  after  the  disastrous  repulse  of 
the  Union  troops,  the  writer  recognized  the  buildings 
and  surroundings,  and  my  father  camped  near  the  same 
locality  when  moving  here  some  years  before. 

So  we  had  two  horses  and  no  extra  saddle  to  handi- 
cap us  and  only  one  footman  in  the  bunch;  we  sure 
enough  did  "ride  and  tie"  then,  and  made  pretty  good 
progress  across  the  almost  boundless  prairie  between  In- 
dependence and  Pleasant  Hill,  arriving  at  uncle's  home 
one  mile  west  of  there  a  little  after  nightfall.  And,  oh, 
great  grief!  My  uncle's  youngest  child  named  Wiley 
Bayley  for  old  Uncle  Wiley  Bayley,  who  died  a  few  years 
since  in  Pleasant  Hill,  had  climbed  up  to  the  table  and 
turned  a  pot  of  boiling  coffee  on  himself  and  died  in  great 
agony  within  a  few  hours;  he  was  buried  when  we  got 
there.  There  were  no  telephones  and  only  one  commer- 
cial telegraph  at  that  time  reaching  St.  Joseph. 

I  give  all  these  particulars  of  this  little  trip  that 
could  be  made  now  in  a  few  hours  without  getting  out 
of  the  cars  to  cross  the  great  river,  to  show  the  great  in- 
convenience we  labored  under  at  that  time. 

My  uncle  had  to  move  about  three  miles  before 
winter  set  in,  but  had  little  plunder  to  move.  I  worked 
like  a  Trojan,  helping  all  I  could,  so  when  they  got 
moved,  he  being  a  pretty  good  selfmade  scholar,  got  a 
school  about  three  miles  from  the  place  he  moved  to,  in 
his  old  neighborhood,  agreeing  to  teach  English  gram- 
mar, which  he  had  never  studied  a  day  in  school  in  his 
life  up  to  that  time.  His  oldest  son,  Luke,  also  got  a 
school  near  where  his  father  had  moved,  the  one  I  went 
to  that  winter  and  about  which  I  am  writing  this  me- 

109 


SEVENTY-FIVE   YEARS    ON    THE    BORDER 

morial.  I  now  have  in  my  possession  letters  from  Uncle 
James  Williams,  40  years  old,  of  as  correct  grammatical 
construction  and  as  polished  diction  as  could  emanate 
from  a  William  Jewel  professor. 

My  cousin,  Susan  Williams,  a  young  woman  yet  at 
home,  had  attended  an  Academy  (I  think  at  Lexington), 
and  was  a  good  grammarian.  She  had  for  pupils  at 
night  her  father  and  her  cousin  James,  the  writer  of  this 
story.  Uncle  kept  away  ahead  of  his  scholars,  they  not 
dreaming  that  he  was  studying  grammar  as  well  as 
they.  Now,  my  good  readers,  let  me  tell  you  all  I  know 
of  English  grammar  I  learned  in  that  little  backwoods 
cabin  located  within  two  miles  of  the  town  of  Green- 
wood on  the  Missouri  Pacific  Ry.  in  Jackson  County, 
Missouri. 

But  I've  wandered  away  off  from  that  spelling  con- 
test I  commenced  to  tell  about.  Cousin  Luke  Williami 
was  away  ahead  of  any  young  man  in  the  neighborhood 
in  education,  having  attended  several  terms  the  Chapel 
Hill  Academy,  located,  I  think,  at  Clinton,  Mo.,  and  was 
competent  to  teach,  either  in  town  or  country.  He  got  a 
day  school  and  boarded  with  an  old  and  wealthy  (for 
that  day)  farmer,  named  Jack  Farmer,  whose  daughter 
Lottie  he  afterward  married. 

In  the  beginning  of  his  school,  he  bought  a  nice,  little 
polyglot  Bible,  very  fine  print  with  gilt  edges,  which  the 
offered  to  the  best  speller,  or  the  one  who  quit  at  the 
head  of  the  spelling  class  the  most  times  during  the 
term.  I  hate  to  say  it,  but  there  were  more  poor  spellers 
to  the  square  yard  in  that  bunch  of  pupils  than  I  had 
ever  run  across  at  one  school.  There  were  only  two 
fairly  good  spellers  in  that  lot  of  about  twenty-five.  I 
was  one  and  that  little,  pretty  sweetheart  of  Luke's, 
Lottie,  the  other.  I  didn't  care  very  much  for  the  little 
Bible,  but  was  thirsting  for  glory,  and  knowing  how  it 
would  please  my  good  mother  at  home  far  away  for  me 
to  come  off  victor,  we  worked  like  beavers.  Lottie  and  I 
committed  to  memory  every  word  of  each  lesson.  Even 
then  I  knew  what  was  the  matter  with  Luke  and  Lottie. 

no 


SEVENTY-FIVE   YEARS   ON    THE   BORDER 

She  wanted  to  please  him,  and  no  one  could  blame  him 
for  being  pleased  if  she  won.  But  Luke  was  too  just  a 
man  for  any  partiality,  so  we  had  it  nip  and  tuck,  first 
one,  then  the  other  going  around  that  class  of  dummies. 
I've  seen  that  class  of  ten  or  twelve  all  miss  a  simple 
word,  many  of  them  not  naming  a  single  letter  of  the 
word;  when  the  word  would  come  to  Lottie  or  me,  it 
would  be  snapped  up  like  a  trout  snapping  a  fly  on  a 
sportman's  trailing  hook. 

Neither  of  us  missed  a  word  in  that  contest.  I  came 
out  victor,  but  Fve  since  thought  my  victory  was  hardly 
a  fair  one,  for  this  reason,  we  were  usually  tied.  It 
was  Lottie's  time  to  be  head  the  day  she  was  sick.  Of 
course,  quitting  head  the  day  before,  I  had  to  go  to  the 
foot  of  the  class.  Oh,  what  fun  I  had  turning  down 
whole  squads  of  big  boys  and  girls.  About  the  third 
round,  I  was  at  the  head  of  the  class  and  one  mark  ahead, 
and  I  never  gave  poor,  dear  Lottie  any  opportunity  to 
get  even.  Had  she  not  stayed  at  home  that  day,  we 
would  have  been  tied,  then  the  test  of  good  spelling 
would  have  come. 

Many  years  after  the  war,  Luke  being  a  cripple, 
having  lost  a  leg  at  the  terrible  little  fight  at  Lone  Jack 
on  the  Union  side,  while  I  lived,  a  few  years,  south  of 
Kansas  City,  I  often  thought  I  would  go  over  to  Pleasant 
Hill  where  Luke  and  Lottie  lived.  My  intention  was  to 
take  along  the  little  Bible  and  invite  (if  any  of  the 
scholars  of  that  school  could  be  found)  them  to  a  spell- 
ing match.  They  were  nearly  all  killed  on  one  side  of 
the  other  of  the  great  struggle,  as  I  have  learned  from 
Mr.  Gill  of  Dallas,  Jackson  County,  Mo.,  who  told  the 
names  of  many  that  I  recognized  as  members  of  that 
school.  But  with  all  my  good  intentions  of  giving  Lottie 
another  chance  to  win  the  prize,  and  her  good,  old 
crippled  husband  to  act  as  schoolmaster  as  of  old,  alas,  I 
put  it  off  too  long;  they've  both  gone  to  their  reward  in 
the  "better  land". 

I  and  the  little  Bible,  now  in  my  possession,  are  all 
that  are  left  of  that  school.    Cousin  Luke  had  also  offered 

in 


SEVENTY-FIVE    YEARS    ON    THE    BORDER 

50  cents  cash  prize  for  the  best  progress  in  arithmetic. 
The  mathematicians  of  that  school,  like  the  spellers, 
could  not  tell  (many  of  them),  what  the  sum  of  2  and  3 
added  together  would  be,  so  I  had  practically  no  compe- 
tition for  that  prize,  and  won  it  quite  easily,  thus  carry- 
ing off  the  only  two  prizes  offered.  The  only  competi- 
tor at  all  was  a  younger  brother  of  Luke,  the  teacher, 
"James  Barker  Williams,  named  I  think,  for  the  philan- 
thropist Barker,  who  ministered  at  Shawnee  Mis- 
sion in  a  very  early  day.  Some  of  the  old  buildings  of 
that  Mission  are  yet  standing  a  few  miles  southwest 
of  Westport,  at  that  time  the  farthest  west  town  in  the 
United  States,  with  possibly  the  exception  of  some  of 
the  towns  in  Texas. 

I  had  earned  about  75  cents  helping  an  aunt's  boys 
gather  corn  during  the  Christmas  holidays.  She  gave 
me  25  cents  per  day;  however  we  didn't  hurt  ourselves. 
Much  of  it  couldn't  be  gotten  around  very  fast  on  account 
of  the  high  cockle  burrs,  her  niggers  and  boys  had  allow- 
ed to  get  ripe  in  the  corn.  Niggers,  cockle  burrs  and 
mules,  at  that  time,  seemed  to  be  indigenous  to  Missouri 
soil. 

So,  with  $1.25  I  started  home  about  the  middle 
of  February.  Another  Uncle,  Charles  Williams,  took  me 
to  Independence  one  snowy,  cold  day,  but  the  ice  in  the 
Missouri  River  had  broken  up,  and  was  running  in  great 
chunks  from  a  rod  to  a  quarter  of  an  acre  in  size,  with 
thousands  of  lesser  pieces  grinding  in  the  whirling  eddies 
of  that  dangerous,  muddy,  swift  running  current.  The 
ferry  boat  was  an  old  flat  boat  with  great  long  hewn, 
wide  timbers  for  side  gunwales,  probably  40  feet  long, 
and  propelled  by  side  oars  and  poles  in  shallow  water, 
with  rudder  oar  in  stern. 

It  was  quite  windy  all  forenoon  driving  great  ricks 
of  ice  in  shore  on  the  south  side  where  the  boat  was  tied 
up ;  the  ferryman  lived  at  old  Wayne  City.  I,  one  horse- 
man and  two  men  with  three  yoke  of  big  oxen,  were 
waiting  to  be  crossed  to  the  north,  or  Liberty,  side, 
Uncle  Charles  still  waiting  to  see  how  I  got  across. 

us 


SEVENTY-FIVE   YEARS   ON    THE    BORDER 

The  above  mentioned  cargo  all  got  aboard  of  that 
frail  old  boat  with  no  power  except  hand  power,  to  com- 
bat the  ice.  The  three  yoke  of  oxen  were  coupled  to- 
gether with  big  log  chains,  and  were  located  in  the  mid- 
dle of  the  boat  for  ballast,  one  of  their  owners  at  their 
front  to  keep  them  from  going  forward  and  by  their  great 
weight  sinking  the  boat;  the  other  man  keeping  ready 
for  any  emergency.  "Weighing  anchor,"  the  boat  swung 
into  the  rapid  current  and  grinding  ice  floes,  which  would 
pile  up  against  the  gunwale.  In  spite  of  the  heroic  efforts 
of  the  ferryman  with  their  pike  poles,  we  drifted  out  to 
the  middle  of  the  current  where  most  of  the  running  ice 
was  grinding  fearfully.  When  I  looked  back  to  see  if  we 
were  making  any  headway,  horrors,  we  were,  at  least,  a 
mile  or  more  down  the  river  below  the  place  of  landing. 
However,  by  the  Herculean  efforts  of  the  ferrymen,  we 
were  slowly  approaching  open  water  where  the  ice  was 
not  so  dangerous,  and,  finally,  reached  this  comparatively 
still  water.  The  ferrymen  used  all  their  power  to  go  up 
stream  the  more  than  a  mile  to  the  only  possible  place 
the  boat  could  land.  It  was  a  long  time  against  the  little 
current  that  was  flowing  toward  the  Gulf  of  Mexico. 

The  boat  finally  reached  water  shallow  enough  for 
the  ferrymen's  poles  to  reach  bottom  to  our  great  relief; 
we  were  yet  quite  a  distance  from  the  landing  place,  but 
no  great  distance  from  the  bank.  The  oxen  being  restless 
from  the  long  "voyage,"  one  of  the  middle  yoke'  got 
scared  and  tried  to  jump  sideways  out  over  the  gunwale, 
rocking  the  old  craft  till  it  nearly  dipped  water.  Seeing 
this  I  instantly  took  off  my  old  shoes  and  overcoat,  pre- 
paring to  battle  with  the  icy  water  for  the  shore,  believing 
from  watching  the  length  of  the  poles  that  I'd  not  have  to 
swim  far  before  I  could  wade  out,  which  was  the  case. 
They  quieted  the  oxen,  and  the  boat  soon  reached  the 
landing  place,  and  we  all  stepped  on  terra  firma  from 
what,  had  appeared,  an  hour  before  to  be  a  watery  grave. 
Those  ferrymen  were  brave  fellows  even  if  they  did  have 
some  whiskey  in  them.  If  they  had  not  had,  they  would 
not  have  tried  so  dangerous  an  experiment. 

113 


SEVENTY-FIVE   YEARS    ON    THE    BORDER 

- 


My  uncle,  seeing  us  safely  ashore,  waived  me  adieu, 
and  next  time  I  saw  him  was  at  his  home  near  Lebanon, 
Oregon,  40  years  later,  where  he  and  Cousin  Luke's 
father  died  many  years  since. 

To  finish  this,  to  me,  eventful  trip,  I  put  on  my  old 
shoes;  about  the  only  good  in  them  was  they  kept  the 
frozen,  icy  slush  from  cutting  my  feet.  One  advantage 
in  them  was,  if  they  did  let  the  slush  in,  the  holes  in 
them  were  so  big  and  numerous  they  let  it  out  again. 

After  paying  my  ferry  passage,  I  had  60  cents  left. 
I  walked  to  Liberty  and  paid  10  cents  for  a  ginger  cake 
and  root  beer;  the  50  cents  left,  the  good  hotel  man  took 
and  gave  me  a  good  supper,  warm  bed  and  breakfast, 
when  I  told  him  my  story.  I  walked  home  to  meet  a  glad 
mother,  with  the  little  Bible  in  my  pocket,  and  I  have  it 
yet. 

February  2nd,  1912. 


CHAPTER  47. 


DREAMS. 


Whether  I've  inherited  a  little  of  the  superstition  of 
the  South  slave  states'  people,  who  have,  for  generations, 
been  brought  up  with  the  ignorant  and  superstitious  ne- 
groes, and  in  spite  of  all  our  higher  learning,  a  little  of 
these  negro  ghost  stories  still  cling  to  them.  I'll  not  try  to 
explain,  but  I'll  tell  some  of  my  own  peculiar  dreams 
which  I'll  never  forget. 

In  the  fall  of  1848  my  parents  visited  their  kin  folks 
in  Cass  County.  As  we  were  to  have  no  school  that  win- 
ter at  home,  my  Uncle  James  Williams  put  at  father  and 
mother  to  let  me  stay  with  them  and  go  to  school  as  they 
had  secured  a  first  class  teacher,  and  the  schoolhouse  was 
close  by,  so  we  could  do  a  good  deal  of  work  nights  and 
mornings.  So  they  concluded  to  let  me  stay  and  I  started 
in  for  the  winter  and  the  family  went  home. 

I  had  gotten  a  good  start,  and  no  boy  ever  tried  much 

114 


SEVENTY-FIVE   YEARS   ON    THE    BORDER 

harder  to  learn  than  I  did.  I  will  say,  when  a  boy  I 
thirsted  for  learning,  and  had  my  father  lived,  I  think  I 
would  have  taken  a  college  course,  but  fate  decided 
otherwise.  Somehow,  when  I  took  my  father's  hand 
when  he  bade  me  goodbye,  telling  me  to  help  uncle  and 
aunt,  I  felt  bad;  someway,  it  seemed  this  was  to  be  the 
final  goodbye,  which  it  proved  to  be. 

Two  or  three  weeks  had  passed,  and  I  grew  more  un- 
easy and  homesick,  but  studied  hard  and  said  nothing  of 
my  troubled  mind.  Finally,  one  night  I  dreamed  that 
Uncle  Bill  Williams,  who  lived  here  in  Clinton  County  at 
that  time  (he  came  to  the  county  the  same  time  we  did 
six  years  before) ,  came  to  the  schoolhouse,  saying  he  had 
come  for  me,  that  my  father  was  dead,  and  I  dreamed  the 
same  dream  three  nights  in  succession.  These  dreams 
were  giving  me  no  little  trouble. 

There  was  in  that  neighborhood,  strange  as  it  may 
seem,  a  great,  stalwart,  dark  complexioned  man,  whose 
name  was  Bill  Williams,  and  who  looked  as  much  like 
Uncle  Bill  as  twin  brothers  look  like  each  other.  This 
man  Williams  came  to  the  schoolhouse  one  evening  just 
as  school  was  dismissed.  I  saw  him  up  a  little  distance 
among  some  crab  apple  bushes  hitching  his  horse,  and 
jumped  at  the  conclusion  that  he  was  Uncle  Bill.  Run- 
ning to  him  terribly  excited,  I  called  to  him.  "Uncle 
Bill,  what  is  the  matter  at  home"?  He  had  never  seen 
me,  nor  I  him.  I  did  not  know  there  was  such  a  man  in 
the  world.  Seeing  my  mistake,  I  told  him  he  looked  like 
an  uncle  of  mine  of  the  same  name;  all  the  scholars 
laughed  at  my  mistake.  In  a  few  days  Uncle  Bill  did 
sure  enough  come  and  bring  the  tidings  of  father's  death, 
telling  me  he'd  come  after  me  to  go  home,  precisely  as  I 
had  seen  in  my  dreams  three  nights  in  succession. 

On  another  occasion,  at  the  beginning  of  the  war,  I 
was  engaged  in  shipping  stock,  and  on  a  trip  with  two 
loads  of  cattle  bought  a  little  too  high.  I  suffered  a  con- 
siderable loss,  and  was  sorely  pressed  to  know  just  what 
to  do  to  make  up  my  loss,  which  I  felt  so  keenly. 

I  had  a  good  friend,  Mr.  John  T.  Jones,  who  had 

115 


SEVENTY-FIVE   YEARS    ON    THE    BORDER 

nearly  a  car  load  of  nice,  fat,  young  cattle  he  wanted  me 
to  buy  and  ship,  saying,  "Ship  them,  James,  at  the  price  I 
make  you  and  I'll  stand  any  loss  at  that  price,"  so  it  was 
"heads  I  win,  tails,  he  lost,"  so  I  took  the  cattle,  and 
picked  up  a  few  more  to  fill  out  a  load.  The  night  before, 
I  was  to  ship  next  day,  still  having  some  misgiving  as  to 
the  outcome  of  the  venture  (as  I  was  too  proud  to  allow 
my  friend  Jones  to  lose  as  long  as  I  had  anything)  I  was 
somewhat  troubled,  but  finally  slept  and  dreamed  some 
one  handed  me  six  twenty  dollar  gold  coins.  On  getting 
up  in  the  morning  and  telling  mother  my  pleasant  dream, 
she  said,  "Good  luck  ahead  of  you  son ;  always  good  luck 
to  dream  of  gold  and  silver  coins." 

The  outcome  of  the  deal  seemed  to  justify  mother's 
prediction.  At  any  rate,  I  kept  an  accurate  account  to  a 
cent  of  my  expense  on  that  trip.  I  will  say  I  did  not 
board  at  $5.00  a  day  hotels,  or  buy  theater  box  seats,  but 
when  I  got  home,  after  everything  was  paid,  I  had  ex- 
actly six  $20.00  gold  coins  as  profits,  having  been,  at  that 
time,  paid  in  gold  coin. 

I'll  give  only  one  more  of  these  shaky  looking  stories. 
About  ten  years  ago,  I  bought  80  acres  of  land  south  of 
Kansas  City,  on  Holmes  and  98th  street  roads,  and  moved 
part  of  my  household  plunder,  my  wife,  and  our  oldest 
son,  Wallace,  and  I  living,  or  staying,  there  to  "hold  the 
fort."  We  wanted  to  sell  as  we  were  needed  badly  on 
the  home  place,  and  were  pretty  homesick,  so  one  of  our 
neighbors,  B.  F.  LaForce,  being  in  the  real  estate  busi- 
ness, found  a  prospective  buyer  and  wanted  our  price 
and  terms,  etc.  I  made  him  a  gross  and  net  price  of 
dollars. 

The  deal  dragged  along  till  about  the  middle  of  May 
before  the  interested  parties  all  got  back  from  a  foreign 
land,  and  looked  the  place  over.  They'd  been  out  on 
Saturday  and  took  a  final  good  look  at  it,  and  on  Monday 
morning,  I  told  my  son,  Wallace,  I  was  not  going  to  do 
any  more  work  until  the  deal  was  either  clear  off,  or 
consummated,  telling  him,  at  the  same  time,  that  I'd  had 
one  of  his  grandmother's  good  dreams  the  night  before. 

116 


SEVENTY-FIVE   YEARS   ON    THE   BORDER 

I  had  dreamed  that  a  man  came  to  me  holding  in  his 
hands  a  compact  package  of  bank  bills  looking  just  like 
the  $500.00  and  $1,000.00  packages  put  up  by  the  banks, 

saying,  "Here  is ■,. . ."  naming  the  number  of 

thousands  of  dollars  it  took  to  finish  the  deal,  and  hand- 
ing the  package  to  me.  So  I  went  over  to  the  city  and 
up  to  LaForce's  office  to  give  him  some  further  instruc- 
tions and  commenced  telling  him,  whereupon  he  said, 
"You  are  too  late;  the  place  is  sold  already,  and  we  are 
ready  for  your  Abstract  of  Title,"  and  I  didn't  do  any 
more  work  at  Lonsomehurst  Park. 

With  these  three  examples  of  dreams  which  were 
fulfilled  exactly  as  I  saw  them  before,  and  two  of  them 
were  told  to  friends  beforehand,  is  it  any  wonder  I  ap- 
pear to  have  inherited  a  little  of  the  old  negro  supersti- 
tion of  our  Southland  people?  While  there  are  thousands 
of  foolish  dreams  which  never  amount  to  anything,  yet 
there  seems  to  be  psychological  mystery  about  some  of 
our  dreams  which  may  be  made  plain  to  us  in  the  here- 
after. 

Another  peculiar  phase  of  dreams,  in  my  case,  at 
least,  is,  if  I  dream  of  scenes  and  incidents  of  early  life, 
especially  of  my  young  lady  associates,  they  never  grow 
old.  Their  cheeks  are  of  the  roseate  hue,  and  still  have 
the  bloom  of  youth,  though  they  may  have  been  mould- 
ering in  the  grave  forty  years. 

Dreams,  to  me,  are  a  mystery  which  will  never  be 
solved  to  my  satisfaction  this  side  of  the  tomb. 


CHAPTER  48. 


AN  ALLEGORY. 

Sitting  by  my  glowing  stove  fire  one  cold,  dreary 
evening  in  November,  my  mind  in  a  reminiscent  mood, 
half  waking,  half  dreaming  of  the  past,  all  at  once  I 
heard  the  muffled  sounds  of  hoofs,  and  the  low  rumbling 
sound  of  a  vehicle  passing  in  the  street  of  a  great  city. 

117 


SEVENTY-FIVE   YEARS    ON    THE    BORDER 

— - 

I  looked  and  saw  on  the  outside  of  the  enclosed  vehicle, 
the  sign,  "St.  Mary's  Hospital  Ambulance."  Within 
was  a  man  holding  in  his  arms  a  beautiful  boy  child 
about  eight  or  nine  years  old,  the  golden  ringlets  hang- 
ing down  over  his  face,  deathly  pale  from  the  loss  of 
blood.  I  also  noticed  two  mounted  police  accompanying, 
one  ahead  to  clear  the  way  at  crossings,  the  other  as  a 
rear  guard  of  honor,  which  was  a  very  unusual  occurr- 
ence, and  led  me  to  question  the  policeman  on  his  beat 
at  a  crossing,  who  gave  me  this  explanation: 

The  father  of  the  little  boy,  whose  name  I  learned 
was  Jerry  Flannigan,  owned  a  high-toned  saloon  at  the 
corner  of  6th  and  Blank  street.  Mr.  Flannigan  was  also  a 
large  asphalt  paving  contractor,  and  was  on  excellent 
terms  with  most  of  the  city  aldermen,  and  was  a  special 
friend  of  the  city  engineer.  In  fact,  he  gave  his  "bar- 
tender" orders  not  to  spare  the  sparkling  champagne  or 
fragrant  "Havanas"  when  any  of  these  officials  should 
patronize  his  guilded  place  of  business.  Jerry,  like 
many  modern  doctors,  was  too  astute  a  business  man  to 
pour  much  of  his  medicine  down  his  own  throat,  hence, 
he  kept  a  clear,  cool  head,  and  made  money  beyond  the 
dreams  of  "avarice."  However,  he  was  always  open 
handed  and  gave  liberally  to  deserving  charities,  never 
turning  a  hungry  person  away  from  his  door  empty 
handed.  In  fact,  was  one  of  those  warm  hearted,  bright 
business  Irishmen,  who  make  many  friends  and  few  if 
any,  enemies. 

Jerry  came  from  the  Emerald  Isle  while  a  little  boy, 
with  his  parents,  sold  newspapers  morning  and  evenings, 
before  and  after  school  hours,  and  kept  a  savings  account 
with  a  local  bank.  Arriving  at  manhood,  he  was  a 
splendid  looking  man  and  well  calculated  to  be  very 
popular  in  the  society  in  which  he  moved.  At  a  social 
club  function  he  was  introduced  to  a  bright,  sparkling 
young  lady  of  ancient  lineage,  which  could  be  traced 
back  to  Knickerbocker  days.  Her  father's  ancestors 
were   brewers  of  beer  from  time  immemorial. 

11H 


SEVENTY-FIVE   YEARS   ON    THE   BORDER 

Her  vivacity  captivated  Jerry  and  she  reciprocated 
his  soft  advances,  and  in  due  time  they  were  married  at 
the  Cathedral  with  a  great  throng  to  witness  the  cere- 
mony; the  Bishop  in  sacredotal  robes,  altar  boys  holding 
waxen  tapers  the  pipe  organ  pealing  forth  the  wedding 
march. 

After  the  wedding  festal  days  and  honeymoon  trip, 
Jerry's  father-in-law  suggested  that  the  corner  of  6th  and 
Blank  Sts.,  was  a  fine  location  for  a  saloon,  and  proposed 
to  erect  a  palatial  building  and  present  this  fine  corner 
and  building,  free  of  cost  to  him  (Jerry),  provided  he 
would  keep  a  first  class  saloon  in  the  building,  telling 
Jerry  there  was  a  fortune  in  the  business  if  properly 
managed  and  manipulated.  While  Jerry  did  not  al- 
together like  the  saloon  part,  the  alluring  prospect  of 
great  riches  decided  him  to  accept  of  the  gift,  and  he  put 
in  a  fine  bar  and  fixtures,  hired  a  first-class  barkeeper, 
who  was  an  excellent  judge  of  counterfeit  money,  so 
crooks  having  green  goods  to  shove  could  not  pass  them 
on  his  barkeeper. 

Things  went  on  prosperously,  and,  Jerry  not  being 
needed,  in  fact,  despised  the  surroundings  of  even  a  first 
class  (so  called)  saloon,  got  a  paving  contract  and  made 
money.  In  the  meantime,  his  bright  young  wife,  al- 
though a  club  woman,  after  a  time  bore  him  a  beautiful 
boy  child,  who  was  christened  Edward,  Eddy.  Somehow 
this  good  lady  had  inherited  from  her  ancestors  the  idea 
of  her  illustrious  countryman,  President  Roosevelt,  that 
race  suicide,  by  whirling  spray  or  other  criminal,  ques- 
tionable, means  was  not  just  the  proper  thing  for  a 
human  being  created  in  the  image  of  her  Creator,  hence, 
she  heeded  the  command  in  the  beginning,  "Be  fruitful 
and  multiply  and  replenish  the  earth." 

However,  being  a  society  lady,  she  turned  over  to 
Eddy's  nurse  a  great  deal  of  his  training.  Having  two 
other  children,  bright  little  girls,  to  look  after,  Eddy  did 
not  get  the  attention  she  would  really  have  liked  him  to 
have.  Of  course,  her  early  training  precluded  the  idea 
of  her  giving  up  her  society  functions,  bridge,  whist  and 

119 


SEVENTY-FIVE    YEARS    ON    THE    BORDER 

other  card  and  dancing  parties,  so  the  boy  Eddy  played 
with  the  street  urchins  till  he  would  be  tired,  and  being  a 
little  fellow  and  as  smart  as  a  whip,  he  would  naturally 
drift  into  the  saloon,  where  the  barkeeper  would  pet  and 
make  much  of  him,  as  well  as  many  of  the  fine  business 
gentlemen  who  would  caress  him  and  give  him  money 
to  buy  candy  and  toys.  As  Eddy  grew  older,  he  went  to 
the  saloon  frequently  while  out  of  school. 

Early  in  the  Eighteenth  Century,  there  came  from 
Europe  two  families,  the  English  one,  whose  name  we 
will  call  Rivers  (a  fair  type  of  the  aristocracy  of  Colonial 
days)  to  Virginia,  securing  from  the  Crown  a  large  tract 
of  valley  land.  The  other  was  of  French  Hugenot,  cav- 
alier lineage,  whose  name  we  will  call  Jacques  De  Haven. 
Both  families  settled  in  the  same  rich  valley  about  the 
same  period. 

Tobacco  having  been  introduced  in  England  a  cen- 
tury before  by  Sir  Walter  Raleigh,  cargoes  of  tobacco 
were  freely  exchanged  on  the  wharves  at  Jamestown  for 
cargoes  of  slaves  kidnapped  by  cruel  Arab  traders  and 
sold  to  bad  men  engaged  in  the  slave  trade.  Both  these 
families  vied  with  each  other  to  see  which  could  buy  the 
most  slaves  and  raise  the  most  tobacco  to  buy  more 
slaves  and  land,  and  a  rivalry  sprung  up  between  these 
two  wealthy,  aristocratic  families  that  existed  from  gen- 
eration to  generation  until  the  breaking  out  of  the  great 
Civil  War,  which  freed  their  many  slaves.  However, 
these,  like  many  other  good  people,  treated  their  servants 
humanely  and  many  of  them  remained  on  the  old  planta- 
tions, for  many  years,  working  the  impoverished  land  on 
shares.  Finally,  the  younger  generations,  like  their 
yonng,  white  would-be  masters,  drifted  to  town  and  city. 
Many  of  the  young  men  went  west  to  locate,  many  to 
Kentucky,  including  representatives  of  the  two  old  fam- 
ilies; they  were  usually  sportsmen  and  frequently  en- 
gaged in  games  of  poker  and  drinking  in  high-toned 
saloons. 

Young  Tom  Rivers  and  John  De  Haven  came  near 
having  a  pistol  exhibition  at  one  of  the  great  racing  meets 

no 


SEVENTY. FIVE   YEARS    ON    THE    BORDER 

at  Lexington  over  a  game  of  poker,  but  friends  interfered 
and  hostilities  were  ended  without  blood  being  shed. 
They  shook  hands  across  the  bloodless  chasm  and 
pledged  their  ancient  friendship  over  a  bottle  of  spark- 
ling champagne  and  then  and  there  agreed  to  go  to  a 
booming,  lively  city  on  the  Missouri  River  and  open  up 
some  kind  of  business  to  retrieve  their  waning  fortunes. 
So  they  got  letters  of  introduction  to  some  first  class, 
high  toned  society  people  and  business  men. 

On  their  arrival  in  this  great  city,  they  were  feted, 
wined  and  dined  by  the  bon  ton  of  the  city  at  a  reception 
in  their  honor.  Among  many  other  beautiful  and  accom- 
plished young  ladies,  they  were  introduced  to  the  spark- 
ling and  ravishingly  beautiful  Beatrice  Revington,  whose 
raven  hair  glittered  with  jewels,  and  from  whose  white, 
tapering  fingers  flashed  a  thousand  brilliant  rays  of  cost- 
ly diamonds  of  the  first  water.  Is  it  any  wonder  our  two 
friends  lost  their  balance  and  both  fell  in  love  with  the 
brilliant  Miss  Revington,  each  trying  to  conceal  from  the 
other,  the  true  situation. 

In  the  meantime,  Miss  R.  divided  her  coquetish 
smiles  on  each  in  about  equal  quantities,  as  well  as  on 
many  other  of  her  special  friends.  Things  ran  on  smooth- 
ly for  a  while  until  about  city  election  time,  both  of  our 
young  friends  being  ardent  Democrats,  had  nothing  to 
fall  out  about  politically,  but  having  formed  the  acquain- 
tance of  many  north  end  politicians,  who  always  met  at 
Jerry  Flannigan's  saloon  to  discuss  politics,  champage, 
beer  and  whiskey,  our  friends  concluded  to  have  a  little 
game  of  their  old  fashioned  Kentucky  poker. 

So,  they  called  for  a  deck  of  much  used  cards  (which 
like  Jerry's  beer  and  whiskey  were  always  on  tap  for 
convivial  occasions),  they  shuffled,  cut  and  dealt  furious- 
ly, first  one,  then  the  other  winning,  and  in  the  meantime 
ordering  champagne  and  drinking  freely  of  the  miserable 
counterfeit  manufactured  in  some  dark  cellar  of  a  north 
end  wholesale  liquor  house.  Finally,  one  of  them  ac- 
cused the  other  of  stealing  a  card,  or  cheating,  which  was 
instantly  resented  by  the  other,  both  smarting  with  rival 

121 


SEVENTY-FIVE    YEARS   ON    THE    BORDER 

jealousy  of  Miss  Revington's  alluring  smiles.  Hot  words 
passed,  and  finally,  "You  are  lying  and  a  coward  beside." 
Instantly  two  shining  revolvers  were  in  sight ;  one,  miss- 
ing fire,  its  owner  jumped  aside  as  the  other  deadly 
weapon  was  discharged,  missing  the  man  for  which  it 
was  intended,  but  hitting  and  fatally  wounding  little 
Eddy.  The  police  rushed  in  and  marched  off  to  the  city 
jail  these  hot,  drink-crazed  Kentucky  bloods,  but  did  they 
arrest  Flannigan  or  his  bartender  for  keeping  a  disorder- 
ly saloon  or  gambling  house?  Not  a  bit  of  it.  Election 
was  too  near  at  hand ;  they  did  not  dare  to  do  it. 

When  little  Eddy  arrived  at  the  hospital,  a  consulta- 
tion was  held  by  the  surgeons  in  attendance.  A  majority 
was  in  favor  of  amputating  the  right  leg  above  the  knee, 
the  thigh  bone  having  been  badly  fractured  by  the  un- 
lucky pistol  shot.  But  father  and  mother  pleaded  hard  for 
them  to  try  to  save  the  limb,  to  which  the  surgeons  final- 
ly agreed,  telling  them  that  it  was  their  (the  surgeon's) 
opinion  that  amputation  would  inevitably  have  to  be 
performed,  when,  in  all  probability,  it  would  be  too  late. 
This  prediction  proved  to  be  correct.  In  a  short  time 
signs  of  gangrene  were  noticed  by  the  surgeon,  who  was 
constantly  with  little  Eddy,  and  his  almost  prostrate 
mother  and  heartbroken  father,  who  was  continually  up- 
braiding himself  for  having  anything  to  do  with  the 
miserable  saloon  business. 

The  surgeons  skillfully  performed  the  amputation, 
knowing,  at  the  same  time  it  would  only  hasten  the  hour 
of  Eddy's  dissolution.  The  hospital  priest  a  good  and 
holy  man,  performed  the  last  sad  rites  of  his  church  by 
administering  extreme  unction  for  the  dying,  just  as 
though  this  church  dogma  would  be  of  any  benefit  to 
that  little  child's  immaculate  soul,  who  had  the  Christ 
words,  "Suffer  little  children  to  come  unto  me,  for  of 
such  is  the  Kingdom  of  Heaven." 

Poor  little  Eddy's  body  was  laid  to  rest  in  a  snow 
white  coffin  amid  the  sublime  burial  service  of  the  Cath- 
olic church.  His  father  and  mother  had  the  consolation 
of  a  Christian  burial  and  a  glorious  Resurrection. 

122 


SEVENTY-FIVE   YEARS   ON    THE   BORDER 

But  what  of  the  two  miserable  men,  who,  by  that 
time,  had  sobered  up  and  have  had  a  preliminary  trial 
before  a  magistrate,  and  are  committed  without  bond  for 
murder  awaiting  the  action  of  the  Grand  TurY?  Ten 
days  later,  the  local  morning  paper  came  out  with  this 
announcement:  "The  Grand  Jury  empaneled  to  investi- 
gate the  killing  by  pistol  shot  of  little  Eddy  Flannigan  in 

his  father's  saloon  on blank  day  of  October, , 

finds  a  true  bill  against  one  Tom  Rivers  and  John  De 
Haven  for  murder  in  second  degree,  saying  in  their  report 
that  the  crime  looked  heinous  enough  for  murder  in  the 
first  degree,  had  it  not  been  for  the  mitigating  circum- 
stances that  it  occurred  in  a  high  toned  saloon,  beside 
the  accused  were  drunk,  hence,  were  not  entirely  re- 
sponsible for  their  acts."  Besides,  saloons  were  necessary 
to  bring  business  to  a  town  and  revenue  to  pave  streets 
and  other  great  expenses  of  a  great  city  full  of  graft  and 
corruptable  aldermen  and  other  officials,  and  in  this  way 
the  whole  community  suffers  by  crimes  caused  by 
licensing  corrupt  men  to  corrupt  the  body  politic. 


CHAPTER  49. 


SOME  PANTHER  STORIES. 

I've  never  seen  a  wild  panther,  but  the  greatest  fear 
of  my  long  residence  here  was  that  a  ferocious  panther 
would  spring  off  of  some  tree  and  tear  me  to  pieces.  I 
never  could  pass  through  the  big  woods,  till  I  was  nearly 
a  grown  man,  after  night  without  my  hair  nearly  stand- 
ing straight  up.  If  I  was  compelled  to  go  through  the 
woods  in  the  night,  I'd  sing  and  whistle  to  keep  my 
courage  up,  and  scare  the  panther  off. 

On  one  occasion,  I  had  been  across  on  Smith's  Fork 
Creek  to  old  Mr.  Jonathan  Stone's  place,  about  two  miles 
west  of  where  Turney  now  is,  on  the  Plattsburg  and  Far 
West  road.  I  was  hunting  a  yoke  of  oxen  that  my  father 
had  bought  of  Mr.  Stone.    Not  finding  them,  after  hunt- 

123 


SEVENTY-FIVE   YEARS   ON    THE    BORDER 

•  — — — ' 

ing,  until  iate  in  the  day,  I  would  not  have  gone  home 
that  night  for  the  oxen,  and  told  the  younger  Stone  boys 
so.  About  all  we  boys  talked  about  that  night  was  pan- 
thers, and  the  most  of  their  stories  were  located  on  Shoal 
and  our  creek,  then  an  almost  unbroken,  timbered  coun- 
try for  miles,  and  a  few  years  before  had  a  good  many 
panthers  prowling  around  and  scaring  women  and  chil- 
dren. However,  I  never  heard  of  their  jumping  on  any 
one,  but  we  boys  could  supply  that  part  by  imagination. 
I  stayed  over  night  and  got  my  nerves  all  strung  up  to  a 
high  tension  by  their  terrific,  blood  curdling  stories  of 
how  the  panthers  would  scream  like  some  strong  voiced 
woman  in  despair. 

In  the  afternoon,  I  started  home  striking  the  timber 
near  where  the  Harlan  cemetery  is  now  located.  I  fol- 
lowed the  old  Indian  trail  on  nearly  an  air  line  from  the 
cemetery  to  our  house,  now  Midway  Place.  (There  are 
a  few  fragments  of  that  trail  left  to  this  day  In  the  woods, 
that  I  can  point  out.)  The  evening  was  hazy  and  damp 
while  riding  along  by  the  side  of  a  lake  about  half  a  mile 
southwest  of  home.  (The  lake  is  now  dry  most  of  the 
season.  All  the  great  trees  on  the  south  and  west  of  it 
have  long  since  been  cleared  for  corn  fields.)  Just  as  I 
was  rounding  the  east  end  of  the  lake,  a  terrific  scream 
was  screeched  over  my  head.  Quick  as  a  flash  my  horse, 
a  fleet  one,  was  at  full  speed  on  the  path  for  home.  I  was 
scared  so  badly  that  I  whipped  the  horse,  making  him 
jump  the  six  rail  fence  in  front  of  our  cabin,  telling  my 
parents  a  panther  had  screamed  at  me  in  one  of  those  big 
trees  at  the  pond. 

Father,  not  knowing  whether  or  not  I  had  really 
heard  a  panther,  took  gun  and  dogs  and  went  to  our 
near  neghbors,  Price  Harlan  and  Pleasant  Stephensons, 
who  went  down  to  the  lake,  they  and  the  dogs  making  a 
good  deal  of  noise  on  purpose.  Instead  of  a  panther,  they 
waked  an  old  sleepy  hoot  owl,  which  gave  them  a  sample 
scream,  imitating  a  panther.  So  they  left  the  old  gentle- 
man to  his  cogitations.  He  was  evidently  meditating  on 
a  raid  that  cloudy  evening  on  some  near-by  hen  roost. 

124 


SEVENTY-FIVE    YEARS    ON    THE    BORDER 

I'll  tell  now  about  a  sure  enough  panther  scare  near- 
ly fifty  years  later.  I  would  not  tell  this  story  as  no  one 
would  believe  it,  did  not  several  people  bear  witness  to 
what  I  am  relating.  I'll  give  the  names  of  some  of  them, 
two  of  them,  my  hired  men,  are  gone.  The  first  man, 
who  heard  the  terrific  scream  of  my  panther,  was  Mr. 
Fred  Osman,  who  then  lived  on  a  place  just  at  the  top  of 
Shoal  Creek  hill,  south  of  big  Arch  Bridge,  four  miles 
south  of  Cameron.  Fred  told  me  a  few  days  after  that  he'd 
heard  panthers  scream  many  times  in  the  mountains  of 
California.  He  hissed  his  dog,  which  was  barking  furi- 
ously in  the  direction  of  the  bridge;  it  ran  down  and 
came  back,  Fred  said,  faster  than  it  went,  and  awfully 
scared.  He  said  it  was  a  panther  that  he  heard  scream 
down  by  the  bridge.  This  was  the  same  evening,  I  and 
others,  heard  this  stranger. 

The  next  parties  who  heard  my  panther  were  some 
colored  people  well  known  in  Cameron,  Mr.  Aaron  Bell, 
and  one  or  two  of  his  sons,  who,  at  that  time,  were  liv- 
ing on  a  tract  of  land  owned  by  the  late  Judge  Virgil 
Porter,  I  had  leased  Aaron  a  small  timbered  bottom  on 
Shoal  Creek,  just  south  of  the  mouth  of  William's  Creek. 
It  being  a  little  after  dark,  they  were  burning  brush, 
when,  just  a  short  distance  north  of  them  they  heard  an 
awful  scream.  Aaron  told  me  a  few  days  after — he  said, 
"We  stopped  to  listen  and  soon  such  a  scream  as  we  had 
never  heard  before  arose."  He  said,  "Mr.  Williams,  you 
ought  to  have  seen  these  niggers  git  from  thar',  we  didn't 
go  back  thar  no  mo'  that  night." 

I'll  now  give  my  experience  with  this  pilgrim 
stranger.  I'd  that  evening  been  to  my  farm  now  owned 
by  Mr.  Hutton,  about  one,  one-half  miles  south  from  my 
home  place,  and  started  home  about  dark  going  straight 
through  the  woods  due  north  of  Hutton's  house.  I 
stopped  a  few  minutes  at  Mr.  Maddox's  and  Marion 
Newby's,  talking  a  few  minutes  to  each  of  them,  then 
proceeding  home.  On  arriving  near  the  south  approach 
of  William's  Creek  bridge,  at  once  I  hear  a  terrifnc  scream 
just  ahead  of  me,  apparently  50  to  75  yards  distant.     It 

125 


SEVENTY. FIVE   YEARS    ON    THE    BORDER 

made  the  hair  raise  on  my  head.  I  thought  if  I  had 
heard  such  a  scream  fifty  years  ago,  I  would  have  called 
it  a  panther.  However,  I  picked  up  a  good,  big  club  and 
started,  thinking  it  was  only  a  big  Tom  house  cat  yowl- 
ing. I  got  on  the  bridge  when  another  screaming  yowl 
appeared  to  come  from  the  middle  of  the  road.  I  then 
decided  I  would  see,  if  possible,  the  animal  which  was 
making  such  awful  noise,  and  hurried  up,  club  ready  for 
business.  He  gave  one  more  scream,  probably  100  yards 
farther  west  and  that  was  the  last  I  heard  him.  How- 
ever, he'd  scared  my  horses  in  the  pasture  until  they 
were  trying  to  break  over  the  fence,  running  and  snort- 
ing at  a  fearful  rate.  When  I  came  on  up  to  the  house, 
all  but  one  of  the  boys,  including  the  two  hired  men,  had 
heard  the  "varmint",  and  had  gone  out  to  see  where  he 
went.  When  I  got  home,  the  first  thing  they  asked  me 
was  if  I  had  seen  or  heard  a  panther  down  about  the 
bridge  as  one  of  the  hired  men  had  lived  many  years  in 
Southern  Kansas  near  the  Indian  country,  now  Okla- 
homa, said  that  scream  came  from  a  panther,  as  he  had 
heard  panthers  scream  many  times  in  the  Territory. 
They  all  went  to  Mr.  Newby's  and  Mr.  Maddox's  who 
kept  a  big  pack  of  hounds.  These  hounds  were  put  on 
his  trail  but  could  not  be  induced  to  follow  it  up. 

So  this  pilgrim  stranger  passed  on,  no  one  knowing 
whence  he  came  or  where  he  went.  This  occurred  about 
twelve  or  thirteen  years  since. 

Midway  Place,  Dec.  19,  1911. 


CHAPTER  50. 


AN  INVENTOR. 
The  first  cultivator  in  Clinton  county  was  used  on 
Midway  Place,  with  a  yoke  of  oxen  and  two  plough  boys. 
It  has  been  said  that  "Necessity  is  the  mother  of  inven- 
tion." Listen,  while  I  tell  you  why  and  how  I  invented 
the  first  cultivator  that  would  finish  a  row  of  corn  as  it 
went,  but  oh,  what  a  finish ! 

ui 


SEVENTY-FIVE   YEARS   ON    THE    BORDER 

What  few  horses  we  had  took  what  was  called  yel- 
low water  when  we  had  worked  our  corn  the  second 
time;  when  we  came  to  "lay  it  by,"  we  had  no  teams 
except  a  yoke  of  pretty  fast  oxen.  We  had  to  do  some- 
thing not  to  allow  the  weeds  to  take  our  crop.  We  had  one 
old  fashioned,  wooden  mould  board,  one-horse  turning 
cary  plow,  right  hand ;  we  also  had  an  old,  good,  big  one- 
horse  shovel  plow,  neither  of  which  would  scour  any 
more  than  a  black  oak  log  dragged  in  the  road  cross- 
wise. A  revelation  struck  me.  I  took  an  ax,  went  to 
the  wood  close  at  hand  and  cut  a  forked  pole  about  the 
size  of  our  ox  tongue  in  wagon,  leaving  each  fork  long 
enough  to  hitch  plow  by  clevis  and  one  or  two  links  of 
chain  to  make  plow  a  little  flexible. 

I  hitched  the  turning  plow  to  left  side,  or  fork  of 
tongue  and  the  old  shovel  plow  to  other  or  right  end  of 
fork,  so  hitching  that  yoke  of  oxen  to  that  rude  affair, 
we  managed  to  scratch  both  sides  of  the  corn  row  some, 
and  had  the  distinction  of  being  the  original  inventors  of 
the  cultivators,  so  popular  for  many  years. 

However,  we  neglected  to  patent  our  invention, 
hence,  will  escape  being  prosecuted  for  a  conspiracy  in 
restraint  of  trade. 


CHAPTER  51. 


MISSOURI  PRODUCTS. 

I  think  it  appropriate  that  I  should  say  something 
of  Missouri  products  which  I've  seen  come  and  go  in 
my  73  years"  memory  of  the  Western  border.  Niggers, 
mules,  hemp  and  "terbaccer,"  were  the  burden  of  con- 
versation at  every  log  rolling  and  house  raising  in  an 
early  day,  until  the  discovery  of  gold  in  California,  when 
it  shifted  a  little  to  mules,  oxen  and  gold,  but  tobacco 
and  whiskey,  like  the  laws  of  the  "Medes  and  Persians," 
were  as  unchanged  as  the  laws  of  gravitation.  Hemp, 
oxen  and  niggers  in  the  sense  they  were  then  spoken  of, 

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SEVENTY-FIVE    YEARS    ON    THE    BORDER 



have  lapsed  into  a  "quiet,  inocuous  desuetude."  But  the 
Missouri  mule,  tobacco,  whiskey  and  the  colored  person 
are  still  with  us. 

While  many  of  us  know  exactly  what  to  do  with 
the  three  first  articles,  the  latter  is  still  an  unsettled  ques- 
tion in  the  minds  of  many.  Many  whose  progenitors 
dealt  in  the  above  chattels,  when  I  can  first  remember, 
are  now  dealing  in  poultry  and  eggs,  benefiting  them- 
selves and  the  public  generally  more  than  did  their  fore- 
fathers in  the  uncertain  traffic  in  human  chattels,  even 
granting  it  was  right  from  a  humanitarian  point  of  view. 

But  these  are  not  all  of  Missouri's  glory.  She  is  the 
birthplace  of  a  Clemens  (Mark  Twain),  of  a  Kit  Carson, 
F.  X.  Aubrey,  the  telegraph  of  the  plains,  whose  trips  on 
horseback  from  Westport  to  Santa  Fe  in  less  than  100 
hours  have  never  been  equaled  in  history.  The  writer 
can  well  remember  when  Aubrey  made  these  trips,  al- 
though the  exact  date  is  forgotten.  Missouri  is  the  birth- 
place of  General  Sterling  Price,  and  has  been  the  home  of 
the  greatest  military  hero  of  all  history,  General  Grant. 
Of  a  David  R.  Atchison,  a  Doniphan,  a  Benton,  a  Clark, 
a  Daniel  Boone,  a  David  R.  Francis ;  of  John  Sappington, 
Jas.  H.  Birch,  Willard  P.  Hall,  George  Smith,  Governor 
Woodson,  Claiborn  F.  Jackson,  of  whom  the  writer  many 
years  ago,  heard  it  told  that  he,  Gov.  Jackson,  married 
three  of  Dr.  John  Sappington's  daughters,  one  after  the 
other,  and  when  the  last  marriage  took  place,  there  being 
no  more  daughters  for  Claiborn  to  marry,  the  old  doctor 
expressedhis  fear  that  if  this  last  girl  should  unfortunate- 
ly die  before  her  mother,  Claiborn  would  want  the  old 
woman.  I  don't  vouch  for  this  being  true,  but  will  say 
I've  swallowed  many  a  dose  of  Sappington's  pills,  and 
have  seen  his  medicine  wagons,  which  distributed  his 
quinine  pills  and  collected  at  the  same  time. 

But  I've  gotten  off  from  what  I  started  out  to  write 
about,  Missouri  poets.  Everybody  knows  that  Indiana 
has  its  favorite  poet,  the  author  of  "The  Old  Swimmin' 
Hole,"  and  Jackson  County,  Missouri,  has  its  poet  laureate 
in  the  memory  of  "Rural  Rhymes  and  Talks  and  Tales  of 


SEVENTY-FIVE   YEARS    ON    THE    BORDER 

Olden  Times"  by  Martin  L.  Rice.  But  Missouri  had  a  poet 
in  ye  olden  time,  whose  name,  like  the  author  of  Arabian 
Nights  entertainment,  will  have  to  go  down  to  posterity 
unhonored  and  unsung,  while  his  wonderful  genius 
should  go  down  the  ages  right  alongside  of  Mark 
Twain's  who  must  have  called  on  him  frequently  to  bor- 
row a  meal,  or,  having  let  the  fire  go  out  in  the  fireplace, 
to  get  a  chunk  to  kindle  with,  as  they  must  have  lived 
in  close  enough  proximity  for  these  early  day  neighbor- 
ly acts. 

My  readers  will  already  have  guessed  at  the  poetical 
production  whose  author  is  lost  (so  far  as  I  know)  to 
posterity.  I  mean,  "My  Name  It  Is  Joe  Bowers,"  and 
lest  the  Interstate  Commerce  Commission  should  en- 
join a  Louisiana  Tobacco  Co.,  as  to  sending  this  immortal 
poem,  descriptive  of  Joe's  woes,  as  wrappers  around  their 
(Missouri)  plug,  and  thus  cut  it  off  from  coming  gener- 
ations, I  thought  I'd  better  give  it  a  place  in  my  little 
book,  which  certainly  should  give  it  a  niche  in  the 
Temple  of  Fame,  and  be  valued  highly  as  Missouri's 
James  Whitcomb  Riley. 

By  the  courtesy  of  Hon.  David  Ball,  of  Louisiana, 
Mo.,  I  have  been  presented  with  a  copy  of  the  original 
"Joe  Bowers,"  from  which  I  am  transcribing  for  the 
benefit  of  Missourians,  who  sometimes  have  to  see  a 
thing  before  believing  it. 

There  were  some  things  in  war  and  militia  days  that 
would  make  a  heathen  idol  laugh,  or  almost  provoke 
manslaughter  or  suicide.  I  regret  I  have  to  say  that  I, 
sometimes  almost  wished,  no — not  quite  that  bad,  but 
I  believe  at  that  time  I  would  not  have  tied  any  crepe 
on  my  arm  had  we  gotten  into  a  skirmish  with  the  bush- 
whackers and  a  few  of  our  card  playing,  lazy,  rollick- 
ing, noisy,  dirty  mouthed  fellows,  who  were  no  good 
in  or  out  of  camp,  had  gotten  killed.  They'd  lie  around 
all  day  when  they  could  be  of  any  service  and  when 
night  came,  they'd  get  out  an  old,  filthy  deck  of  cards 
and  game  till  nearly  midnight,  then  three  or  four  of  them 
would  sing  "Joe  Bowers",  all  in  a  different  key  and  keep 

129 


SEVENTY-FIVE    YEARS    ON    THE    BORDER 

'. 

every  decent  man  awake.  When  time  came  to  get  up 
they'd  be  dead  asleep  and  unfit  for  anything  but  finding 
fault  with  somebody  else.  Was  it  any  wonder  then  that 
decent  men  despised  such  rollicking  fellows? 


THE  BALLAD  OF  JOE  BOWERS. 

My  name  it  is  Joe  Bowers, 

And  I've  got  a  brother  Ike; 
I   came  from  old  Missouri, 

And  all  the  way  from  Pike. 
I'll  tell  you  why  I  left  there, 

And  why  I  came  to  roam, 
And  leave  my  poor  old  mammy, 

So  far  away  from  home. 

I  used  to  court  a  gal  there, 

Her  name  was  Sally  Black; 
I  axed  her  if  she'd  marry  me, 

She  said  it  was  a  whack. 
Says  she  to  me,  "Joe  Bowers, 

Before  we  hitch  for  life, 
You  ought  to  get  a  little  home 

To  keep   your  little  wife." 

"O  Sally,  dearest  Sally, 

0  Sally,  for  your  sake, 
I'll  go  to  California 

And  try  to  make  a  stake." 
Says  she  to  me,  "Joe  Bowers, 

You  are  the  man  to  win, 
Here's  a  kiss  to  bind  the  bargain," 

And  she  hove  a  dozen  in. 

When  I  got  out  to  that  country 

1  hadn't  nary  red; 

I  had  such  wolfish  feelings, 
I    wished    myself   'most   dead. 

But  the  thoughts  of  my  dear  Sally 
Soon   made   these    feelings    git, 

And  whispered  hopes  to   Bowers — 
I  wish  I  had  'em  yit. 

At  length  I   went   to   mining, 

Put  in  my  biggest  licks; 
Went  down  upon  the  boulders 

Just  like   a  thousand   bricks. 
I  worked  both  late  and  early, 

In  rain,  in   sun.  in  snow; 
I   was  working  for  my   Sally — 

Twas  all  the  same  to  Joe. 

130 


SEVENTY-FIVE   YEARS   ON    THE   BORDER 


At  length  I  got  a  letter 

From  my  dear  brother  Ike; 
It  came  from  old  Missouri, 

All  the  way  from  Pike. 
It    brought    to    me    the    darndest    news 

That  ever  you  did  hear; 
My  heart  is  almost  bursting, 

So  pray  excuse  this  tear. 

It  said  that  Sally  was  false  to  me, 

Her  love  for  me  had  fled; 
She'd  got  married  to  a  butcher, 

And  the  butcher's  hair  was  red. 
And  more  than  that,  the  letter  said 

(It's  enough  to  make  me  swear), 
That  Sally  has  a  baby, 

And  the  baby  has  red  hair. 


CHAPTER  52 


A  TRIP  TO  LAWRENCE,  KANSAS,  IN  1860. 

At  first  glance,  people  nowadays  will  smile  when  I 
commence  to  tell  about  a  trip  which  looks  so  uninterest- 
ing, a  trip  which  can  now  be  made  without  getting  out 
of  a  car  within  four  or  five  hours,  with  no  more  than 
the  ordinary  risk  of  railway  travel.  Not  so,  then, 
however. 

The  first  shipment  of  stock  I  made  over  the  H.  & 
St.  Joe  Railway  was  to  Chicago  in  the  summer  of  1860, 
which  consisted  of  one  car  of  cattle.  We  had  to  un- 
load at  Hannibal  and  ship  on  a  big  ferry,  operated,  I 
think,  by  the  C.  B.  &  Q.  Ry.  to  connect  Chicago  and 
eastern  traffic  with  the  Hannibal  &  St.  Joe  Ry.  We 
always  fed  at  Quincy,  where,  at  that  time,  were  ca- 
pacious feed  yards  and  a  good  market  for  stock,  cattle 
and  hogs  and  fat  cattle,  as  well,  as  New  York  shippers 
who  would  ship  east  direct  via  the  Wabash  not  going 
via  Chicago. 

The  season  of  1860  was  the  greatest  drouth  that 
Western  Missouri  and  Eastern  Kansas  had  seen  to  that 
day,  or  to  this,  for  that  matter,  but  Illinois  had  a  fine 

131 


SEVENTY-FIVE    YEARS    ON    THE    BORDER 

corn  crop,  as  was  that  year  on  the  vast  prairies  of  Cen- 
tral Illinois  about  Augusta,  Galesburg  and  farther  north. 
I  learned  while  at  Quincy  that  stock  hogs  were  wanted 
badly  to  eat  that  big  corn  crop  and  we  wanted  to  sell 
our  long  nosed  razor  backs  just  as  badly,  so  I  came 
home  and  wanted  my  brother  to  go  in  with  me  and  buy 
stock  hogs  to  ship  to  Quincy.  I  think  now,  he  was 
afraid  of  the  venture  and  I  tried  a  load  on  my  own 
hook  and  made  a  little  money,  which  looked  mighty  big 
to  us  at  that  time,  so  he  went  in  with  me  on  the  next 
load  which  we  bought  on  Shoal  and  Smith's  Forksl 
Creek.  We  had  those  long  nosed,  gaunt  wind  splitters 
delivered  at  Mr.  John  Bedford's  place  on  the  divide  be- 
tween Shoal  and  Smith's  Forks  creek,  out  on  the  high 
prairie  about  three  miles  south  of  where  the  town  of  Tur- 
ney  now  is,  and  there  was  only  one  house  directly  on 
the  road  from  Bedford's  to  Osborn  (Judge  Thomas  E. 
Turney's). 

We  gathered  most  of  the  hogs  one  afternoon,  but 
all  did  not  get  in  before  noon  the  next  day,  but  those 
that  did  get  in  put  in  the  whole  time  in  pugilistic  exer- 
cises getting  acquainted  with  each  other.  After  all 
were  in,  it  was  noon,  and  we  three  of  us  ate  dinner  with 
Mr.  Bedford  (who  at  the  time  was  digging  a  well).  He 
proposed  that  he  and  his  hired  man  would  help  us  start 
that  motley,  long  legged  fighting  lot  of  stock  hogs.  We 
had  along  a  water  wagon  with  three  or  four  barrels  to 
haul  water  to  keep  the  hogs  from  dying  with  heat  while 
on  the  dusty  road  to  Osborn.  When  Mr.  Bedford  got  back 
home,  that  well  which  was  then  about  30  feet  deep,  had 
caved  in  from  top  to  bottom  with  the  digging  tools  in 
it,  and  they  are  probably  in  it  to  this  day  as  they  were 
never  dug  out.  The  hired  man  told  me  afterward  that 
he  would  have  been  in  that  well  with  the  tools  had  he 
not  gone  with  us  to  help  start  the  hogs. 

Nothing  further  occurred  worth  telling;  we  got  the 
hogs  to  Quincy  all  right  selling  them  at  a  nice  little 
profit,  but  the  trouble  was,  there  was  no  more  stock 
hogs   for   sale   in   our   vicinity.      Clay   Duncan,   George 


SEVENTY-FIVE   YEARS   ON    THE    BORDER 

White,  Dick  Kelly  and  everybody  else,  had  gotten  on 
to  the  Quincy  racket  and  grabbed  up  the  last  razor 
back  in  sight,  and  that  was  why  I  struck  for  Lawrence. 

Today  an  American  would  be  safer  in  Afghanistan, 
Beloochistan,  or  Teheran  in  Persia,  than  a  border  Mis- 
sourian  in  Lawrence  in  1860,  and  I  knew  it  with  the  ex- 
perience I'd  had  on  the  steamer,  "Star  of  the  West"  at 
Lexington,  Mo.,  three  years  before,  but  I  heard  there  were 
lots  of  hogs  (and  no  corn)  up  the  Kaw  Valley  which 
could  be  gotten  for  a  mere  trifle,  if  the  buyer  would  pay 
well  for  hauling  in  wagons  those  thin  stock  hogs  to  St. 
Joseph  or  Atchison.  So,  taking  along  all  the  money  I 
could  rake  together,  between  $300.00  and  $400.00,  away 
I  went  for  Lawrence,  not  knowing  that,  after  leaving 
Leavenworth  City,  which,  at  that  time,  appeared  to  be 
the  coming  city  of  the  Missouri  River,  a  few  miles  out 
it  was  all  Indian  Reservation  nearly  to  Lawrence.  I 
found  out  something  on  that  trip. 

I  rode  horseback,  or  in  wagon  to  Plattsburg,  then 
struck  west  on  the  Union  Mill,  or  old  Estill  Mill  and 
Weston,  Leavenworth  road,  and  found  transportation  a 
good  part  of  the  way  in  wagons  going  in  the  right  di- 
rection, and  reached  Leavenworth  the  next  day  about 
3  P.  M.  Eating  a  lunch,  I  started  for  Lawrence  on  the 
stage  road  in  a  southwesterly  direction  till  I  came  to  a 
little  creek.  I  think  its  name  was  Little  Stranger,  where 
was  located  the  stage  relay  station  and  a  primitive  road- 
side house  of  entertainment,  the  last  and  only  place  a 
white  wayfarer  could  stay  over  night  between  the  two 
towns.  The  balance  of  the  way,  I  learned,  was  still  an 
Indian  Reservation  nearly  to  Lawrence.  I  don't  know 
whether  it  was  the  Delawares  or  Pottawatomies,  who 
were  still  there. 

After  staying  at  the  stage  relay  over  night,  I  start- 
ed early  next  morning,  not  waiting  for  the  Leavenworth 
stage  to  pass,  thinking  I  could  earn  money  pretty  fast 
by  walking,  the  stage  fare  being  10c  per  mile.  I  pushed 
on  in  dust  shoe  top  deep,  with  no  signs  of  civilization 
by  the  wayside.    Along  about  10  o'clock,  I  noticed,  on 

133 


SEVENTY. FIVE   YEARS    ON    THE    BORDER 

—I 

looking  back,  a  cloud  of  dust  rolling  along.  When  a 
little  breeze  cleared  the  dust  away,  I  could  see  coming 
on  a  swinging  trot  and  gallop,  the  big  6  horse  Concord 
stage  full  of  passengers,  swinging  from  side  to  side, 
rapidly  approaching,  giving  me  very  little  time  to  decide 
whether  I'd  hail  the  driver  and  take  passage.  But 
the  10c  a  mile  caused  me  to  try  the  dust  afoot,  not 
knowing  what  I  had  ahead  of  me  and  thirty  minutes 
after  he  had  passed,  I  was  rueing  it  that  I  was  not  in 
that  stage. 

Trudging  along  in  that  hot,  desolate  road,  I  began 
to  suffer  for  water ;  no  houses  and  all  the  little  branches 
dry.  How  I  wished  I  was  back  home,  but  was  too  de- 
termined to  find  out  about  those  imaginary  cheap  hogs 
to  take  the  inbound  stage,  which  passed  me  going  to 
Leavenworth  about  11  o'clock.  Luckily,  I  met  a  man 
who  told  me  of  a  deserted  Indian  shack  on  ahead  a 
half  mile,  by  the  road  side,  where  he  said  there  was  a 
dug  well  walled  up  with  stone,  but  nothing  with  which 
to  draw  the  water.  On  arriving,  I  found  the  well  as 
he  said.  It  seemed  I  was  perishing  for  water,  so  down 
the  well  I  climbed  on  the  wall,  bracing  my  feet  firmly 
in  a  chink  of  the  wall.  I  dipped  water  with  one  hand, 
a  sup  at  a  time,  till  the  good  water  and  cool  well 
quenched  my  burning  thirst,  drinking  again  and  again. 

I  climbed  to  the  top  refreshed  and  continued  my 
tramp,  but  soon  wanted  water  again.  On  coming  to  a 
forest  of  fine  open  timber  on  a  good  big  creek,  (they 
called  the  creek  Big  Stranger),  I  noticed  a  good,  big 
two  story  white  house,  (the  only  good  house  on  the  35 
mile  road  at  that  time).  I  went  out  to  it  (it  stood  in 
the  woods  100  yards  or  so  from  the  main  road).  On 
approaching,  a  dark  complexioned  white  man,  with  a 
Colt's  revolver  buckled  around  his  waist,  was  just  com- 
ing from  the  house  to  the  road.  I  accosted  him  and' 
asked  if  I  could  get  a  drink  of  water  at  the  house.  He 
said  I  could,  but  the  people  were  Indians,  so  I  passed  on 
thinking  that,  Indians  or  not,  they  could  not  look  uglier 
than  he  did.     He  had  a  sinister,  cut-throat  look  that 

184 


SEVENTY-FIVE   YEARS   ON    THE    BORDER 

made  me  almost  shudder,  and  yet  I  believe,  if  he  had 
known  I  had  on  my  person  $350.00,  I'd  not  now  be  writ- 
ing this  story. 

I  called  on  the  Indians;  I  think  they  were  half 
breeds  from  general  appearances,  got  a  drink  of  good 
water  and  dallied  there  a  spell,  hoping  the  sinister  look- 
ing chap  would  disappear,  which  he  did  to  my  intense 
relief. 

Onward  again  several  miles  and  I  was  wanting  wa- 
ter again,  as  well  as  dinner,  which  latter  was  out  of  the 
question.  I  was  told  I  could  get  water  at  Tonga's  vil- 
lage, which  was  a  few  log  huts  by  the  wayside  near  a 
little  creek.  On  arriving,  I  went  to  the  best  looking  hut 
and  found  a  middle  aged  Indian  with  nothing  on  his  per- 
son but  a  long  loose  blouse  or  shirt,  with  two  little  In- 
dians fanning  him.  I'll  try  to  tell  just  how  the  Indian 
Chief,  Tonganoxie,  looked,  the  only  Indian  Chief  I  ever 
saw. 

He  was  a  great  big  fellow  and  looked  as  though  he 
had  been  for  years  a  staunch  customer  of  "Blatz," 
"Goetz"  or  "Schlitz,"  however,  none  of  these  three  names 
so  famous  in  the  history  of  certain  cities  had  been  heard 
of  then,  in  the  West,  so  I'll  have  to  clear  Tonga  of  being 
a  beer  guzzler  and  pass  on  to  the  ferry  at  Lawrence. 

The  great  Bowersock  Dam  across  the  Kaw  had  not 
been  built  then;  I  think  the  question  of  damming  the 
Kaw  had  been  discussed  some  even  at  that  early  day, 
but  it  was  lost  sight  of  in  the  slavery  agitation,  which 
was  at  that  time  rending  the  country.  Many  years  after 
the  war  it  was  revived,  resulting  in  the  great  dam  and 
Bowersock  Milling  Co.  and  probably  some  other  in- 
dustries. I  think  it  was  the  original  intention  of  those 
New  Englanders  to  make  a  western  Lowell  of  Law- 
rence, but  they  had  not  taken  into  consideration  that 
Lawrence  was  located  too  near  the  short  grass,  wild 
West  on  two  sides,  and  poor  old,  moss-back  Missouri  on 
another  for  a  successful  manufacturing  town. 

I  stayed  in  town  that  night  and  selfpreservation,  if 
nothing  else,  made  me  keep  my  ears  open  and  mouth 

135 


SEVENTY. FIVE    YEARS    ON    THE    BORDER 

closed.  While  I  detested  the  institution  of  human 
chattels  being  bought  and  sold  on  public  auction  blocks, 
as  I  had  witnessed  a  few  times  in  Clinton  County,  at 
the  same  time,  I  didn't  like  to  hear  their  anathemas  of 
all  Missourians,  which  I  knew  to  be  unjust,  having  lived 
among  these  people  all  my  life;  so  turn  which  way  I 
would,  I  was  between  two  fires  and  kept  still. 

Along  in  the  forenoon  of  the  next  day,  I  noticed  a 
wagon  coming  in  from  the  east,  and  I  accosted  the  two 
nice  looking  men  asking  if  they  were  farmers.  They 
said  they  were  and  lived  a  few  miles  southeast  of  town 
near  the  Waukarusha  Creek,  at  or  near  where  there  had 
been  a  little  village,  Franklin,  started  and  abandoned. 
Telling  them  what  I  was  looking  for,  it  being  Saturday, 
I  asked  to  accompany  them  home  and  if  I  could  stay 
over  Sunday  with  them  and  get  them  to  help  me  to  get 
up  some  hogs,  if  they  could  be  found  and  delivered  on 
the  Missouri  River  so  that  I  could  get  them  to  trans- 
portation. They  readily  assented,  at  the  same  time  tell- 
ing me  that  there  were  a  good  many  stock  hogs  they 
thought  could  be  bought,  but  getting  them  to  St.  Joe 
was  the  trouble,  which  proved  true  and  I  soon  aban- 
doned the  idea  of  getting  any. 

Staying  over  Sunday,  I  learned  these  nice  people 
were  Presbyterians  and  would  have  preaching  in  their 
good,  big  house,  so  I  was  pleased  that  I  had  fallen  in 
with  such  good  people.  I  liked  them  a  good  deal  better 
than  I  did  the  Lawrence  town  politicians.  I  could  not 
help  but  think  of  some  home  Presbyterian  people  I  had 
known  since  boyhood.  The  preacher  arriving,  I  sur- 
veyed him  pretty  closely.  I  think  he'd  gotten  wind 
that  there  was  a  Missourian  in  his  audience  from  some 
remarks  he  let  fall  which  were  not  calculated  to  flatter 
me  much.  However,  I  was  in  "Rome"  and  was  trying 
to  "do  as  Rome  did,"  and  came  out  unscathed.  His  re- 
marks were  bitter,  but  scholarly  and  not  calculated  to 
give  comfort  to  one  hailing  from  a  slave  holding  com- 
munity. It  was  not  to  be  wondered  at  much,  for  with- 
in a  stone's  throw,  a  year  or  two  before,  there  met  in 

U8 


SEVENTY-FIVE   YEARS   ON    THE    BORDER 

conflict  some  of  old  John  Brown's  adherents  and  their 
enemy,  the  border  ruffians,  and  the  little  cabin  in  which 
one  or  the  other  of  the  belligerents  took  shelter  was  full 
of  bullets  fired  by  their  assailants.  I  was  so  full  of 
patriotic  zeal,  that  I  secretly  endorsed  what  he  said 
against  the  institution  of  slavery,  but  somehow,  even 
then  I  didn't  like  to  hear  Missourians  denounced.  I  did 
not  know  quite  as  much  then  as  I  learned  later  on. 

There  was  a  big  camp  meeting  going  on  up  at  Bald- 
win City  at  the  time,  so  I  went  up  there  with  my  good 
hosts.  I  think  there  was  a  good,  big  college  there  then, 
which  has  developed  into  Baker  University.  My  good 
friends,  to  whom  I  had  confided  the  fact  that  I  was  on 
the  side  of  the  old  Flag,  come  what  might,  seemed  to  vie 
with  each  other  in  kindly  treatment,  and  I  bade  them 
good  bye  at  Lawrence.  I  didn't  relish  making  any  more 
money  by  walking  back  to  Leavenworth  over  that  hot, 
dusty  road ;  it  was  bad  enough  in  that  big  Concord  coach. 

I  crossed  the  river,  walked  out  5  miles  to  an  uncle 
by  marriage,  Mr.  A.  V.  Baldwin,  one  of  the  Shoal  Creek 
pioneers.  He  was  an  awful  noisy,  pro-slavery  man  and 
wanted  me  to  drop  the  hog  trade  and  go  into  the  busi- 
ness of  buying  and  selling  slaves.  He  could  not  have 
made  a  proposition  more  repulsive  to  me  than  that  one, 
and  I  told  him  so.  I  had  already  within  the  few  years 
just  preceding,  seen  enough  to  believe  a  storm,  the  like 
of  which  no  one  in  the  United  States  had  seen,  was  brew- 
ing and  told  him  my  opinion  of  the  brutal  traffic,  and 
left  him  to  see  him  no  more.  His  long  tongue  and  noisy, 
overbearing  attitude  to  those  not  agreeing  with  him,  got 
him  in  trouble  in  war  time.  He  was  arrested  and  taken 
to  Fort  Leavenworth  and  thrown  in  prison.  He  there 
contracted  cold  and  disease  from  which  he  never  recov- 
ered, and  died  leaving  my  aunt  and  a  lot  of  girls  to 
battle  for  existence  with  the  cold  charities  of  a  selfish 
world. 

And  he  didn't  own  a  single  slave.  All  that  froth 
and  noise  was  to  maintain  his  rights  and  he  was  only  ah 
example  of  thousands  of  others  at  that  time. 

137 


SEVENTY-FIVE    YEARS    ON    THE    BORDER 


CHAPTER  53. 


THE  TRAGIC  ENDING  OF  FOUR  OF 
THE  BEATTY  FAMILY. 

My  mother's  maiden  name  was  Beatty,  and  three 
of  her  brothers  and  one  sister  met  tragic  deaths. 

In  a  very  early  day  there  moved  into  Caldwell  coun- 
ty, near  Mirabile,  a  man  whose  name  was  Wesley  Hinds, 
who  was  a  brother  to  my  mother's  step-mother,  who 
was  mother  of  Alexander  Beatty,  who  was  shot  down  in 
old  Far  West  about  72  or  73  years  ago. 

There  was  an  election  on  hand  in  which,  I  think 
Wesley  Hinds  was  offering  for  office,  and  there  was  in 
the  county  a  man  named  "Bogart,"  who,  it  seemed,  was 
greatly  opposed  to  Mr.  Hinds,  so  at  the  election,  Mr. 
Bogart  was  either  drinking,  or  was  a  very  overbearing 
braggart,  as  was  claimed  by  his  opponent.  Bogart  pub- 
licly boasted  that  he  could  whip  Wesley  Hinds,  or  any 
of  his  friends,  when  Beatty,  not  liking  to  hear  his  Uncle 
bullied  in  that  manner  remarked  that  he  was  a  friend  of 
Mr.  Hinds,  and  was  ready  to  take  Hind's  part,  or  place-, 
whereupon  Bogart  called  him  a  liar  and  a  coward  (I 
think).  Beatty  instantly  struck  at  Bogart,  whereupon 
he  threw  up  his  left  hand  fending  off  the  blow,  drew  a 
derringer  and  fatally  wounded  Beatty,  who  died  the 
night  following. 

Bogart  mounted  his  horse  and  rode  off  in  the  excite- 
ment which  followed,  passed  his  own  home,  mounted  on 
a  fine  saddle  animal  and  pushed  for  Texas.  He  was  seen 
in  Clay  county  by  a  party  who  knew  him,  but  never 
seen  thereafter,  fleeing,  as  many  renegade  murderers  did 
at  that  time,  to  the  great  unexplored  land,  conquered  re- 
cently by  Sam  Houston,  David  Crockett  and  other  brave 
Americans,  and  was  never  brought  back  to  face  the 
brutal  crime  he  had  committed.  My  Uncle  Beatty  was 
buried  on  the  old  Smith  Adams'  farm  about  2  miles 
southeast  of  Judge  Wallace's  farm. 

My    mother    had    another    brother,  James    Beatty, 

138 


SEVENTY-FIVE   YEARS   ON    THE   BORDER 

killed  in  the  vicinity  of  Mirabile.  He,  in  his  young  days 
in  St.  Louis,  had,  by  overstudy  (was  preparing  for  the 
Bar  and  had  the  name  of  being  the  brightest  scholar  in 
his  school)  contracted  a  hard  spell  of  typhoid  and  ner- 
vous fever  and  when  he  began  to  get  better,  it  was 
noticed  his  mind,  as  well  as  body,  was  a  wreck  from 
which  he  never  recovered.  He  stayed  with  his  step- 
mother and  half  brothers  and  sisters,  and  came  with  them 
to  Caldwell  County,  and  was  finally  a  county  charge  after 
they  went  to  Oregon.  The  court  hired  a  Mr.  John 
Mabie  to  keep  and  take  care  of  him.  He  was  so 
badly  paralyzed  in  his  lower  limbs  at  times  he  could 
hardly  walk.  Mr.  Mabie  moved  from  one  farm  to  an- 
other. One  cold  morning  in  March,  with  Jimmy  (as 
every  one  called  him),  he  had  the  wagon  piled  high  with 
household  furniture  and  the  helpless  old  man  on  top, 
when  the  wagon  struck  some  obstruction,  throwing  him 
off  and  hurting  him  so  badly  that  he  died  within  24 
hours.  Before  dying,  an  old  boyhood  friend  was  sent 
for,  (Mr.  Colson  Davis)  and  he  told  us  a  good  many 
years  after,  that  Jimmy's  mind  was  as  clear  as  any 
man's  with  whom  he  ever  talked.  He  said  no  man  could 
feel  the  way  he  did  and  live.  He  said  he  was  going 
home  to  a  better  world.  That  ever  since  that  sickness 
his  mind  had  been  clouded,  but  all  was  clear  now. 

"This  hour  of  Death  has  given  me  more 

Of  reason's  power  than  years  before; 

For  as  these  sobbing  veins  decay, 

My  frenzied  visions  fade  away." 

(Lady  of  the  Lake.) 
He  died  the  following  evening  and  I  think  is  buried 
by  the  side  of  his  half  brother,  Alexander,  in  that  lonely, 
neglected  Potter's  Field. 

On  the  death  of  Mrs.  Margaret  Ruble,  a  sister,  near 
McMinnville,  Oregon,  about  30  years  ago,  Mrs.  Eliza- 
beth Kimsey,  another  sister,  while  attending  the  funeral 
was  thrown  from  her  buggy  and  hurt  so  badly  that  she 
died  a  few  days  after. 

A  full  brother  of  these  ladies  and  Alexander  Beatty, 

130 


SEVENTY-FIVE   YEARS   ON    THE    BORDER 

was  Joseph  Beatty,  who  went  to  Nebraska  awhile  after 
the  closing  of  the  war.  On  his  way  to  town  one  day,  his 
team  ran  away,  throwing  him  out  of  his  wagon,  hurting 
him  fatally,  and  he  too,  died  from  that  disaster,  making 
one  full,  and  two  half  brothers  and  one  half  sister  of  my 
Mother's  who  met  violent  deaths. 


CHAPTER  54. 


CATCHING  WOLVES  IN  AN  EARLY  DAY. 

There  were  lots  of  wolves  here  in  an  early  day,  as 
well  as  a  few  at  present.  The  second  year  here,  we  all 
kept  a  few  sheep  and  a  fat  mutton  chop  was  a  favorite 
dish  of  those  big,  grey  and  black  villains,  called  timber 
wolves,  as  well  as  the  small  coyotes  or  prairie  wolves. 
Settlers  would  set  big,  spring  steel  traps,  with  jaws 
nearly  strong  enough  to  hold  a  bear  (it  took  two 
men  to  set  them).  If  one  lone  man  had  accidentally 
gotten  caught  in  one  of  them,  he'd  have  had  to  carry 
it  home  for  relief;  he  could  not  have  gotten  out  of  its 
terrible  jaws  without  help. 

The  wolves  were  too  cunning  to  be  very  often 
caught  in  those  traps,  so  we  made  what  we  called,  wolf 
pens,  which  were  constructed  by  splitting  little  poles 
about  6  inches  in  diameter  and  about  8  feet  long,  build- 
ing a  pen  about  3  feet  high  and  4  feet  wide  by  8  feet 
long,  flooring  the  pen  to  keep  his  wolfship  from  digging 
under.  We'd  then  take  enough  of  those  split  poles  to 
cover  the  pen,  taking  care  not  have  very  big  cracks  be- 
tween. The  pen  being  nicely  covered,  we'd  then  take 
a  piece  of  split  pole,  turning  split  face  down  like  a  batten 
on  an  old  fashioned  door,  but  about  18  inches  longer 
than  the  pen  was  wide.  We'd  pin  that  batten  with 
wooden  pins  (iron  bolts  and  big  nails  were  not  to  be 
had  then)  through  each  slat  of  the  lid  (top  of  pen), 
rounding  the  projecting  ends  of  this  rear  batten  to  serve 
as  hinges  by  inverting  a  forked,  small  pole  with  both 

140 


SEVENTY-FIVE   YEARS    ON    THE    BORDER 

ends  of  fork  same  length  being  sharpened  and  driven 
firmly  in  the  ground  so  as  to  hold  the  back  end  of  cover 
from  slipping  back,  or  sideways,  when  front  was  in  like 
manner  battened,  and  raised  high  enough  for  wolf  to 
jump  into  pen  from  front.  This  heavy  hinged  top  was 
raised  and  set  on  big  triggers  with  piece  of  beef  or  deer 
meat,  usually  the  latter,  and  if  Mr.  Wolf,  big  or  little, 
ever  got  in  that  pen  and  aimed  to  carve  that  venison,  he 
was  a  goner. 

We  often  caught  them  by  running  them  down  with 
strong  horses  and  hounds,  when  the  snow  was  very 
deep  and  soft.  Some  of  the  early  pioneers  would  keep  a 
pack  of  hounds,  and  had  lots  of  fun  (they  said),  chasing 
them.  I  never  was  personally  along  in  more  than  about 
two  of  those  long  chases,  and  we  got  the  wolf.  We  also 
got  awfully  cold,  as  well  as  about  as  hungry  as  the 
wolves  we  were  chasing.  When  we  got  home  I  could 
not  see  where  the  fun  came  in. 

I  remember  we  got  up  one  morning  in  winter,  and 
while  I  was  making  a  fire  in  the  fire  place  (we  had  no 
stoves  then  and  our  overshot  well  was  dry  and  we  had 
to  carry  water  from  a  little  branch  west  of  the  house), 
mother  and  my  little  brother  had  taken  wooden  pails  of 
that  period  and  started  before  daylight  to  the  branch  for 
water.  They  got  down  west  about  100  yards  and  broth- 
er, being  ahead,  a  great  big,  grey  wolf  reared  up  just  a 
few  yards  ahead  of  him.  Instantly  he  blazed  away  at 
the  wolf  with  his  water  pail.  Mother  was  just  behind 
and  both  holloing,  scared  up  another  big,  black  looking 
animal  and  both  ran  off,  mother  and  brother  running  to 
the  house  out  of  breath.  We  didn't  get  breakfast  very 
early  that  morning.  The  two  big  wolves  had  killed  sev- 
eral of  our  little  flock  of  sheep  and  were  gorged  with 
mutton  and  blood;  they  might  easily  have  been  run 
down  and  killed  had  we  been  equipped  with  dogs  and 
good,  fast  horses.  Such  occurrences  as  this  were  com- 
mon in  those  days. 

Midway  Place,  Dec.  23,  1911. 

141 


SEVENTY-FIVE   YEARS    ON    THE    BORDER 


CHAPTER  55. 


FAR  WEST  SEVENTY  YEARS  AGO. 

In  trying  to  tell  how  Far  West,  the  old  Mormon 
town  looked,  the  first  time  I  saw  it  in  1842,  I  regret  that 
I  have  no  daguerreotype  or  photograph  to  assist  me  in 
describing  its  lonely  desolation.  Its  glory  had  departed 
with  most  of  its,  at  one  time,  3000  inhabitants. 

I  think  the  first  time  I  was  in  the  old  town  was  at 
a  Fourth  of  July  celebration  in  1842,  the  first  I  was  ever 
at,  but  I  can  remember  it  as  well  as  if  it  had  been  yes- 
terday, and  how  the  principal  managers  looked  and  act- 
ed. The  marshal's  name  was  Branch  and  he  wore  a  black 
broadcloth  coat,  which  made  a  great  impression  on  me. 
I  was  told  that  cloth  was  made  in  France  and  mother 
had  been  telling  me  about  the  Marquis  De  Lafayette, 
the  great,  good  Frenchman.  I  think  that  was  one  rea- 
son I  was  so  impressed  with  that  black  coat.  Miles 
Bragg  was  his  assistant  and  Volney  Bragg,  the  first 
lawyer  I  ever  saw,  was  the  speaker,  who  read  the 
Declaration  of  Independence  very  impressively.  I  don't 
remember  his  speech.  Of  course,  it  was  along  patriotic 
lines. 

There  was  a  long  ditch  and  some  slick  looking 
niggers  roasting  the  beef,  which  was  very  fine,  I  remem- 
ber. At  the  head  of  the  long  table,  which  was  a  scaffold 
under  a  brush  arbor,  was  seated  a  very  old  man,  whose 
name  was  Benjamin  Middaugh.  I  think  this  old  man 
served  in  the  War  of  1812  and  was  the  father  or  brother 
of  old  Timothy  Middaugh,  who  lived  many  years  about 
two  miles  east  of  Cameron  and  I  think  was  the  grand- 
father of  the  family  of  Middaugh  brothers  near  Mirabile. 
The  long  table  was  located  a  short  distance  north  and, 
I  think,  a  little  east  of  the  old  Temple  excavation,  which 
at  that  time,  was  nearly  intact,  and  the  great  corner- 
stone lying  in  the  bottom.  I  have  been  told  by  those 
who  were  on  the  ground  that  it  took  14  yoke  of  oxen 
to  haul  it.     I've  not  seen  it  for  about  40  years,  but  am 

142 


SEVENTY-FIVE   YEARS   ON    THE   BORDER 

told  that  most  of  that  big  rock  has  been  carried  away 
for  souvenirs  by  the  faithful  Saints. 

When  I  first  saw  Far  West,  many  of  the  smaller 
frame  houses  had  been  moved  away  for  farm  buildings. 
A  good  many  of  the  larger  buildings  had  been  torn  down 
and  rebuilt  after  removal,  hence,  the  houses  left  stand- 
ing were  dilapidated,  old  looking,  unpainted  structures, 
many  of  them  two  stories  high.  They  were  nearly  all 
frames  with  poles  flattened  on  two  sides  for  studding, 
and  split  native  timber  for  lathing  and  weather  board- 
ing The  boarding  was  usually  6  feet  long,  sap  taken 
off,  gauged  and  shaved,  which  made  a  good,  substantial 
building.  The  boarding  usually  was  of  big  bottom  burr 
oak,  the  best  timber  on  Shoal  and  Log  Creek.  The 
town  was  situated  on  a  divide  between  those  two  creeks, 
and  had  the  Hannibal  &  St.  Joseph  Railway  run  up 
Shoal  Creek  (as  was  talked  of),  Far  West  today  would 
be  the  biggest  town  between  St.  Joseph  and  Chillicothe 
instead  of  Cameron. 

Not  only  that,  there  is  but  little  doubt  that  in  place 
of  a  desolate  waste,  the  Temple  lot  would  have  had  a  mag- 
nificent temple,  and  Far  West  would  be  the  "Mecca" 
of  the  pilgrim  Saints,  as  Independence  is  today.  The 
best  church  building  in  Independence  today  is  the  fine, 
brown  stone  on  a  high  ridge  along  the  Kansas  City 
Electric  line.  The  only  Mormon  I  ever  heard  preach 
was  in  that  building  a  few  years  since  and  I  am  free  to 
admit,  I  think  was  about  as  good  a  sermon  as  I 
ever  listened  to,  with  a  few  exceptions.  If  people  will 
live  up  to  the  exhortations  of  that  good  man,  I  think  it 
will  matter  little  whether  they  think  Smith,  Rigdon, 
Pratt,  Whitmer,  Cowdry,  or  anybody  else  were  inspired, 
or  the  Book  of  Mormon  a  Revelation. 

I  knew  David  Whitmer  quite  well  when  I'd  meet 
him  in  Cameron.  He  was  an  up-to-date  farmer,  and  pur- 
chased the  first  two  horse  corn  planter  ever  unloaded 
off  the  cars  at  Cameron.  I  think  I,  and  some  other  by- 
standers, helped  him  put  it  in  his  wagon.  I  remember 
the  wheels  of  that  planter  were  wooden  drums.     Mr. 

143 


SEVENTY. FIVE    YEARS    ON    THE    BORDER 

M 

Whitmer  moved  to  Richmond  some  thirty  years  ago,  and 
died  there.  I  think  the  Whitmer  family  own  the  old 
Temple  lot,  which  is  now  on  the  old  Whitmer  farm,  as 
I  am  told. 

I  have  never  seen  Oliver  Cowdry,  but  have  seen 
tane  of  his  daughters,  who  was  pointed  out  to  me  at 
church  many  years  ago.  She  was  visiting  in  the  vicinity 
of  Far  West.  It  was  at  old  Plum  Creek  school  house  I 
saw  her.  She  was  strikingly  handsome.  I  do  not  know 
whether  she  is  yet  living.  It  is  not  the  province  of  this 
article  to  discuss  whether  Latter  Day  Saints  as  a  church 
organization  is  good  or  otherwise,  but  I'll  say  this,  I've 
been  familiar  with  and  a  neighbor  to  them  for  nearly 
seventy  years,  and  from  what  I've  seen  of  those  in  Mis- 
souri, I  think  they've  hardly  had  fair  treatment,  inas- 
much as  our  laws  allow  every  one  to  worship  as  he 
pleases,  so  long  as  he  is  law  abiding. 

Dec.  21,  1911. 


CHAPTER  56. 


CHARLES  E.  PACKARD. 

While  Mr.  C.  E.  Packard  was  not  what  I  call  an 
early  settler  pioneer,  he  has  been  in  Cameron  and  vicinity 
about  fifty  years,  and  I  have  been  intimately  acquainted 
with  him  since  he  first  came.  I  think  he  is  now  the  only 
living  man  who  was  at  my  infair  dinner,  excepting  my 
own  family,  and  I  've  been  (I  believe)  in  closer  touch 
with  him  than  any  other  man  for  fifty  years,  as  he  has 
been  engaged  in  business  in  Cameron  nearly  all  those 
long  years,  and  has  never  robbed  enough  in  his  dealings 
with  men  to  retire  with  a  big  fortune.  He  may  have 
made  mistakes  (as  we  all  do),  but,  usually,  he,  as  well 
as  others,  suffered  by  his  and  their  own  mistakes. 

Mr.  Packard  has  been  a  pillar  of  strength  in  the 
Christian  Church,  by  example  of  his  Christian  walk  and 
liberal  gifts,  and  his  name  should  go  down  to  posterity, 
as  it  will,  as  one  of  the  early  Christians  of  Cameron. 

Midway  Place,  Dec,  1911. 

144 


SEVENTY. FIVE   YEARS   ON    THE    BORDER 


CHAPTER  57. 


OUR  GERMAN  NEIGHBORS. 

John  Lohman,  who  died  in  Cameron  a  few  years 
since,  was  undoubtedly  the  first,  by  a  few  months,  to 
settle  in  the  German  neighborhood  four  miles  southwest 
of  Cameron.  He  came  in  the  winter,  and  old  Mr.  Sells, 
father  of  Frederic,  Henry  and  Adolph  Sells,  and  Karl 
Kresse's  father-in-law.  I  think  this  colony  settled  here 
about  the  year  1852,  and  no  better  class  of  citizens,  for- 
eign or  native  born,  ever  came  to  the  neighborhood  from 
any  state  or  country  than  they  and  their  descendants.  I 
omitted  to  mention  Mr.  Beechner  came  at  the  same  time. 
He  has  many  grandchildren  to  represent  his  name.  I 
think  some  of  these  good  people  were  about  the  best  in- 
formed Germans  I  ever  met. 

Mr.  Fred  Selle  came  to  Lexington,  Kentucky,  several 
years  prior  to  the  time  the  settlement  came  here,  and 
had  studied  English  in  the  Fatherland  and  spoke  it  quite 
fluently  when  I  first  saw  him,  hence,  he  was  an  inter- 
preter (Dolmetzer),  for  the  colony  in  business  trans- 
actions. However,  the  little  kids  soon  were  better  in- 
terpreters than  any  of  the  older  people. 

It  is  not  often  one  meets  a  better  informed  man  than 
was  Henry  Selle,  father  of  Gustave  and  Albert  Selle.  He 
was  a  master  mechanic  (stone  cutter),  as  were  his 
brothers,  Adolphus  and  Julius.  Fred  and  Julius  both 
were  volunteers,  as  was  Gustave,  their  nephew,  in  the 
Union  Army  in  the  great  war.  Fred  and  Gustave  got 
back ;  Julius*  life  was  laid  on  his  adopted  country's  altar, 
as  was  two  of  Mr.  Stein's  sons,  and  one  of  Mr.  Lohman's. 
Mr.  Stein  came  with  the  first  colonists,  and  no  more 
worthy  people  can  be  found  in  this  community  than  are 
the  descendants  of  William  Stein,  senior.  We'd  have 
little  use  for  court  houses  more  than  to  preserve  records 
and  other  local  business,  if  all  people  were  like  our  good 
German  neighbors. 

They  built  the  first  church  building  (a  log  structure) 

145 


SEVENTY-FIVE   YEARS   ON    THE    BORDER 

— - 

in  Shoal  Township.  They  now  have  a  capacious  frame 
church  and  parsonage  building,  where  the  elements  of 
the  language  of  the  Fatherland  are  taught  in  Sunday 
School  and  preaching,  in  both  English  and  German,  as 
most  of  the  younger  ones  are,  to  all  intents,  patriotic 
Americans,  and  understand  English  a  great  deal  better 
than  the  German,  so  dear  to  their  ancestors. 

I  have  noticed  that  farms  sell  higher,  quality  con- 
sidered, in  a  German  community,  than  where  no  Ger- 
mans are  citizens.  They  all  have  a  patriotic  love  for  the 
Fatherland,  and  are  first  class  citizens  in  any  country. 


CHAPTER  58. 


GOING  ACROSS  THE  PLAINS  IN  EARLY  DAYS. 

Sixty  years  ago,  a  young  man  on  the  border  thought 
his  education  very  incomplete  if  he  had  not  made  a  trip 
or  two  across  the  plains  to  Fort  Laramie,  Hall,  Bridger 
or  Boise  on  the  "Oregon  Trail",  or  to  Bents,  Fort  Santa 
Fe,  Toas,  or  Albuquerque,  on  the  Rio  Grande,  over  "The 
Old  Santa  Fe  Trail".  For  many  years  there  were  two 
companies  engaged  largely  in  freighting  across  that 
(then)  desolate  waste  inhabited  by  savage,  blood  thirsty 
Indians,  ravenous  wolves  and  tens  of  thousands  of  the 
great  American  Bison,  or  buffaloes.  One  of  these  freight- 
ing concerns  was  owned  by  the  then  well  known  Ben 
Holiday,  who  carried  freight  and  express  on  the  more 
Southern  routes.  The  other  company  was  the  great 
freighting  firm  of  Majors,  Russell  &  Waddell,  which  is 
the  one  about  which  I  knew  the  most. 

I  have  met  Mr.  Majors  several  years  ago  in  Denver. 
He  was  then  past  80  years  old,  but  was  a  very  interesting 
man  with  whom  to  talk.  He  was  almost  a  compendium 
of  the  history  of  the  Border,  and  a  few  years  after  pub- 
lished his  book,  "70  Years  on  the  West  Frontier",  and  a 
very  interesting  and  instructive  work.  His  chapter  on 
"The  Mormons  and  Brigham  Young",  is,  I  think,  the  best 

146 


SEVENTY-FIVE   YEARS   ON    THE   BORDER 

and  least  biased  I've  seen.  He  lived  at,  or  near,  Independ- 
ence when  the  Mormons  were  expelled  from  there.  He 
also  resided  in  Salt  Lake  10  or  12  years,  and  was  inti- 
mately acquainted  with  Brigham  Young.  He  says  in 
his  book  that  he  did  millions  of  dollars  worth  of  busi- 
ness with  Brigham  Young  and  his  Saints,  and  never 
found  a  fairer  man  with  whom  to  do  business. 

It  so  happens,  I  bought  a  tract  of  land  a  few  miles 
south  of  Westport,  which  was  owned  by  Mr.  Majors  in 
his  palmy  days  of  freighting,  on  this  tract,  which  I 
named  "Lonesomehurst  Park".  It  had  been  an  old 
time  blacksmith  shop.  I've  found  many  of  the  old  bricks 
and  cinders  of  the  old  forge,  where  his  big  prairie 
schooners  were  repaired  in  winter,  by  a  man  named  Dod- 
son.  I  presume  Dodson  on  the  Big  Blue  at  the  end  of 
the  Westport  and  Dodson  electric  line,  was  named  after 
this  early  day  blacksmith  Dodson. 

My  near  neighbor,  Mr.  Alvin  Douglass,  was  a 
schoolmate  of  Mr.  Majors'  children,  and  has  pointed  out 
to  me  the  place  where  Mr.  Majors  lived,  which  is  just  a 
few  hundred  yards  northeast  of  the  station  at  the  south 
end  of  the  Marlborough  electric  line,  and  but  a  little 
distance  from  Dodson.  Let  me  tell  about  how  Mr. 
Douglass  hid  (as  he  told  me)  when  a  boy,  in  a  big,  hol- 
low elm  tree,  which  stands  on  the  point  of  land  at  the 
junction  of  Dykes'  Branch  and  Indian  Creek,  a  picture 
of  which  I  have  at  present  in  a  landscape  photo  engrav- 
ing of  scenery  on  "Lonesomehurst  Park  Place",  taken 
nine  years  ago. 

The  battle  of  Wesport  was  raging,  and  armed  com- 
panies and  detached  squads  were  fighting  and  chasing 
each  other  all  over  the  prairie  and  woods,  and  crossings 
of  the  creeks.  There  are  now  signs  of  the  old  time  cross- 
ing just  below  the  mouth  of  Dykes'  Branch  near  where 
the  big,  hollow  tree  stands  at  this  time  (if  it  has  not 
been  cut  down  since  I  left  there  four  years  since.) 

Mr.  Douglass  said  first  one  colored  uniform  would  be 
running  and  the  other  color  after  them,  then  the  other 
would  be  running,  being  chased  and  fired  at  as  they  ran 

U7 


SEVENTY-FIVE   YEARS    ON    THE    BORDER 

for  some  two  or  three  days.  Mr.  Douglass  is  a  truthful 
man,  and  what  he  tells  can  be  set  down  as  fact,  and  a 
better  neighbor  than  he  and  his  son,  George,  I  never 
lived  by.  In  fact,  all  those  old  settlers  out  in  that  neigh- 
borhood, including  the  Boones,  descendants  of  Nathan 
Boone,  the  son  of  old  Daniel  Boone,  the  pioneer  of  Ken- 
tucky, are  as  good  people  as  any  one  need  want  to  live 
by,  notwithstanding  some  of  the  older  ones  were  Con- 
federates, or  sympathizers.  I  still  have  a  warm  feeling 
for  them  and  visit  them  frequently  when  in  Kansas  City. 
I  lived,  or  might  say  sojourned,  there  four  years,  either  I, 
or  my  wife,  being  at  home  part  of  the  time,  as  we  always 
called  our  old  Midway  Place,  to  which  we  hustled  back  in 
a  hurry  after  selling  "Lonesomehurst  Park." 

WESTPORT.  The  very  name  suggests  times  gone 
by.  The  old  Harris  House,  at  one  time  probably  the 
largest  building  west  of  St.  Louis,  except  the  public 
buildings;  the  caravansary  which  probably  has  housed, 
and  been  headquarters  for  more  great  men,  who  have 
figured  in  the  past  history  of  the  great  overland  traffic 
and  war  measures,  than  any  other  building  now  intact 
and  in  every  day  use.  It  is  a  staunch,  solid  looking,  old, 
three  story  structure  yet,  and  is  probably  60  years  old. 
Another  is  the  old  Wornall  building,  some  two  or  three 
miles  out  south  on  the  Wornall  Rock  Road.  The  city 
limits,  however,  are  now  four  miles  south  of  Westport, 
with  enough  fine  buildings  south  of  Brush  Creek  (the 
famous  "dead  line"  of  Order  No.  11)  to  make  a  good,  big 
city.  Let  me  predict  here  and  now,  that  Kansas  City 
will,  within  100  years  from  now,  be  the  biggest  city 
nearest  the  geographical  center,  as  well  as  center  of 
population  of  the  biggest  Nation  in  the  world,  and  all 
will  either  speak,  or  think,  in  English. 

I'll  give  a  few  stories  I  heard  told  by  those  who 
crossed  the  plains  many  years  ago.  My  Uncle  "Bill" 
Williams  one  night  was  out  on  guard,  when  he  heard 
something  whiz  by  him  and  stick  in  a  little  hillock.  On 
examining  it,  it  proved  to  be  a  feathered  arrow.  He  in- 
stantly  laid   down   flat,   when,  whiz,   whiz,   the   arrows 

148 


SEVENTY. FIVE   YEARS   ON    THE   BORDER 

came  past  him,  so  he  drew  down  and  fired  in  the  direc- 
tion from  which  they  came,  when  up  jumped  three  or 
four  big  Indians  and  scampered  off,  the  shot  arousing  all 
the  camp. 

A  long  time  ago,  I  heard  a  party  tell  of  some 
freighters  being  in  camp  up  the  Arkansas  Valley,  who 
were  eating  their  breakfast  before  starting  on  their  day's 
travel,  when,  whiz,  a  lasso  went  around  the  body  of  one 
of  the  party,  who  happened  to  have  a  sharpe  knife  in 
his  hand  at  the  time.  The  Indian,  who  had  thrown  the 
lasso,  whirled  his  pony  to  drag  away  his  victim,  who  in- 
stantly seized  the  lasso  with  his  other  hand,  and  as  it 
tightened,  cut  it  in  two  with  the  loop  still  around  his 
body,  thereby  saving  himself  from  a  terrible  death. 

Back  as  far  as  I  can  remember,  before  we  moved 
from  Cass  to  Clinton  County,  I  heard  a  story  told,  and 
I  have  seen  the  same  story  in  print  a  great  many  years 
ago,  so  long  that  I've  almost  forgotten  the  particulars. 
However,  it  went  something  like  this, — a  very  wealthy 
Spaniard  of  Santa  Fe,  or  Chihuahua,  loaded  a  six  mule 
team  with  Mexican  silver  dollars  and  started  for  West- 
port,  or  Independence,  expecting  to  take  a  steamboat  for 
St.  Louis  to  lay  in  a  large  stock  of  such  goods  as  his 
trade  required.  He  had  along  several  natives  as  a  guard 
to  protect  from  Indians  and  robbers. 

As  the  story  went,  they  got  along  all  right  until 
within  50  to  100  miles  of  Westport,  when  they  were  at- 
tacked by  a  band  of  renegade  white  cut  throats  from 
the  Border,  who,  it  was  supposed,  had  some  friends  in 
the  escort  who  had  notified  them.  At  any  rate,  the  old 
Spaniard  was  murdered  and  his  silver  and  teams  taken 
by  the  freebooters.  I  can't  remember  whether  these 
murderers  were  ever  arrested  and  punished,  or  even  how 
the  story  came  to  civilization ;  I  was  so  young  and  it  has 
been  so  long  since,  but  this  story  was  current  for  many 
years  on  the  Border. 

149 


SEVENTY-FIVE   YEARS    ON    THE    BORDER 

, 

CHAPTER  59. 


WHAT  AWFUL  LIARS  SOME  PEOPLE  ARE. 

If  you  want  to  find  out  how  men  can  lie  and  mis- 
represent, just  try  horse  trading,  or  swapping  horses  in 
the  back  alleys  of  the  village.  I  got  it  into  my  head, 
work  with  no  trading  was  a  very  prosy  way  to  make  a 
start  in  the  world,  which,  to  some  extent,  is  true.  So  I 
had  to  try  horse  swapping  as  a  starter  on  the  road  to 
wealth.  I'd  been  brought  up  to  tell  the  truth,  and,  of 
course,  thought  I  had  to  tell  the  whole  truth  about  my 
"hoss",  and  could  not  realize  the  fact  that  the  profes- 
sional horse  swapper  usually  would  tell  you  everything 
but  the  truth  about  his  horse. 

Then,  again,  his  horse  always  looked  a  great  deal 
bigger  before  I  got  him  than  after,  and  usually  would 
not  pull  a  setting  hen  off  her  nest,  but  would  pull  more 
backwards  than  forward,  and,  somehow,  his  teeth  would 
look  different  after  I  had  him  a  few  days.  I  found  ex- 
perience taught  a  dear  school,  but  fools  would  learn  in 
no  other.    I  learned,  but  came  to  the  bridle  several  times. 

My  old  friend,  Ash  McCartney,  once  told  me  a  cer- 
tain friend  of  ours  would  cheat  a  man  out  of  his  horse, 
and  at  the  same  time  the  man  would  think  he  was  one  of 
the  finest  men,  he'd  do  it  so  smoothly.  Many  years  ago, 
I  wanted  to  buy  a  good,  honest  farm  horse  for  all  pur- 
poses, so  this  man,  hearing  of  my  wants,  came  to  me 
telling  me  he  had  just  the  horse  I  needed,  guaranteeing 
him  to  be  all  right  in  every  way.  I  looked  him  over. 
He  was  a  big,  fine  looker  and  seemed  to  be  about  what  I 
wanted,  but  knowing  the  antecedents  of  his  owner,  I 
said  to  him,  "I  am  not  a  very  good  judge  of  a  horse,  and 
you  offer  to  guarantee  him.  I  am  willing  to  pay  every 
dollar  a  good  horse  is  worth,  but  the  horse  must  be  worth 
every  dollar  I  pay  for  him.  I'll  take  the  horse,  try 
him  two  weeks,  and  if  he  proves  to  be  what  you  say  he 
is,  I'll  pay  you  your  price  for  the  horse."  I  didn't  get 
him.  He  knew  I'd  find  what  was  the  matter  with  him 
in  two  weeks'  trial. 

150 


SEVENTY-FIVE   YEARS   ON    THE    BORDER 

As  smart  as  I  thought  I  was,  I  finally  got  a  balky 
horse  unloaded  on  me.  A  merchant  in  town  had  a  nice 
looking  horse,  and  knowing  I  wanted  one,  he  got  a  pretty 
shrewd  fellow  to  tackle  me  in  the  horse  deal,  so  we  went 
into  the  store  and  while  I  talked  to  the  owner,  who  said 
the  horse  was  sound,  six  years  old,  good  saddler  and 
would  work  anywhere,  only  his  color  was  not  very  fash- 
ionable, "a  yellow  dun,"  and  he  was  a  little  moon-eyed, 
everything  else  was  "honest  Injun,"  his  man  went  out 
somewhere.  In  the  meantime,  I  wondered  what  was 
keeping  his  man  so  long,  and  mentioned  "I  have  an  idea 
L.  is  warming  him  up." 

Finally,  here  he  came  down  the  street  with  two 
horses  hitched  to  a  spring  wagon,  driving  up  and  down 
the  street  furiously,  giving  the  yellow  horse  no  time  to 
study  about  it,  and  proclaiming  loudly  that  H.  was  a 
fool  for  offering  the  horse  for  that  price.  He  put  a  saddle 
on  him,  slashing  him  up  and  down  the  street  at  a  fearful 
rate,  the  owner  also  declaring  he  was  one  of  the  best  all 
round  horses  in  town  (he  was  a  good  saddler),  and  I 
finally  bought  the  horse,  and,  like  a  fool,  didn't  use  the 
precaution  to  try  him  before  paying  for  him. 

I  took  him  home  and  the  next  morning  hitched  him 
up  to  a  spring  wagon,  and  he  would  not  pull  enough  to 
have  turned  an  old  setting  hen  over  in  her  nest,  so  we 
tried  the  same  medicine  on  him  that  the  smooth  L.  did, 
took  him  on  the  road  and  ran  him  a  mile  or  so,  then 
hooked  him  to  the  spring  wagon,  and  he'd  trot  along  kind 
of  sidewise  (as  all  balky  horses  do),  but  as  a  worker  was 
not  worth  30  cents.  I  found  him  a  good  saddle  horse, 
but  he  was  so  provokingly  mean,  I  was  glad  to  get,  and 
take,  an  offer  of  $65.00  for  him  a  year  later.  I  got  $35.00 
worth  of  experience  in  this  deal.  I  could  have,  by  law, 
recovered  my  money  on  the  plea  of  obtaining  it  on  false 
pretenses,  but  my  rule  in  life  had  been  not  to  squeal  if 
I've  been  fool  enough  to  let  sharpers  "pull  the  wool  over 
my  eyes". 

There  is  another  way  of  learning  some  things.  Just 
go  to  a  big  city  with  a  few  thousand  dollars  in  cash, 

151 


SEVENTY-FIVE    YEARS    ON    THE    BORDER 

m 

pick  up  the  leading  real  estate  paper,  look  over  the  ad- 
vertisements where  big  snaps  appear  in  big,  open  face 
type,  especially  some  fellow's  new  high  and  sightly  ad- 
dition, and  something  like  this  is  trumpeted  in  your  ears : 

"Just  buy  our  lots  and  see  them  grow.  $10.00  down 
and  'balance  like  rent*.  We'll  save  you  so  much  money 
if  you  buy  'our  goods'.  You'll  get  rich  before  you  know 
it." 

I  know  a  man,  who  listened  to  that  kind  of  a  siren 
song  on  a  vacant  lot  or  two  in  a  growing  city,  who  has 
been  watching  those  lots  grow  for  several  years,  and  I 
believe  this  party  would  be  willing  to  let  somebody  else 
watch  the  City,  County,  Boulevard,  Street  Paving, 
Special  Benefit  District  and  Park  taxes  grow,  as  they  al- 
ways do,  whether  the  front  feet  grow  or  not.  The  things 
which  are  really  good  dividend  payers  are,  as  a  rule,  not 
hawked  around  much. 

"I  stood  beneath  a  hollow  tree,  it  blew  the  blast  that 
hollow  blew, 

I  thought  upon  this  hollow  world  and  all  its  hollow 


CHAPTER  60. 


THE  POTTER  FAMILIES. 

Eldridge  Potter,  Isaac  S.  Baldwin,  Nicholas  Proctor, 
B.  S.  McCord  and  David  O'Neal,  John  and  Joseph  Mus- 
ser  and  John  Bozarth,  and  George  Rhodes,  were  un- 
doubtedly the  first  colonists  on  Shoal  Creek.  However, 
it  is  to  the  elder  Potter  brothers  that  I  propose  to  devote 
this  chapter.  But  I've  known  more  generations  of  the 
old  great,  great,  grandfather  Rhodes  than  any  one  man 
whom  I  can  remember  in  my  whole  life,  except  our  own 
family,  six  generations.  They  certainly  have  kept  the 
command  given  in  the  beginning, — "Be  fruitful  and  mul- 
tiply." 

Eldridge  Potter,  the  pioneer  patriarch  of  the  Meth- 

15* 


SEVENTY. FIVE   YEARS   ON    THE    BORDER 

odist  Israel  of  Clinton  County,  was  a  plain,  old  fashioned 
Tennesseean,  whose  sturdy  honesty  and  Christian  faith, 
no  one  was  ever  called  to  vouch  for;  the  same  can  be 
said  of  his  two  brothers,  Nathaniel  (Uncle  Nat),  and 
Bentley,  who  came  to  the  neighborhood  later  on.  Eld- 
ridge  Potter's  house  looked  old  in  1842.  It  was  then,  as 
well  as  before  and  ever  after  until  his  death  (nearly 
forty  years  ago),  the  headquarters  for  the  early  Metho- 
dist Circuit  riders,  as  those  good  men  were  called  in  those 
days,  who  gave  their  best  days  proclaiming  the  glad 
tidings  of  the  lowly  Babe  of  Bethlehem.  They  went 
without  purse  or  script,  with  no  assured  salary  in  sight. 

How  many  times  have  I  seen  Uncle  Eldridge's  face 
at  his  camp  meetings,  smiling  and  beaming  with  religious 
fervor,  when  the  preacher  would  ask  the  congregation 
(they  didn't  have  trained  choirs  then  to  hollo  classical 
music  so  no  one  in  the  audience  could  understand  a  word 
that  was  sung,  as  nowadays  in  some  churches)  to  sing, 
"Hear  the  royal  proclamation",  or,  "Have  you  heard  of 
that  sun-bright  clime";  "I  hear  the  voice  of  singing 
among  the  waving  trees;  the  echoes  still  are  ringing  on 
every  playful  breeze." 

What  I've  said  of  Uncle  Eldridge  was  just  as  true 
of  his  two  brothers,  Nathaniel  and  Bentley  Potter,  and 
their  offspring  to  the  fourth  generation  have  followed  in 
the  good  work  of  their  forefathers,  and  their  name  is 
legion.  Not  one  of  them  to  my  knowledge,  has  dis- 
graced their  pious  ancestors. 

As  to  the  Rhodes'  family,  I  personally,  when  a  little 
boy,  knew  the  older  George  Rhodes  and  his  son,  James, 
who  lived  on  the  Kingston  and  Plattsburg  road  at  Shoal 
Creek  Ford;  he  was  a  hard  working  farmer,  and  coined 
money  during  the  great  immigration  of  the  "Forty- 
niners",  and  later  gold  seekers.  James  Rhodes  was  the 
father  of  Mary  Rhodes,  an  old  schoolmate  of  the  writer 
for  a  short  time.  The  "Forty-niners"  passed  our  little 
cabin  schoolhouse  on  that  Kingston  road  by  the  thous- 
ands. Mary  Rhodes,  I  think,  was  the  handsomest  girl 
at  that  time,  I've  ever  seen,  and  the  beauty  of  goodness 

153 


SEVENTY-FIVE   YEARS   ON    THE    BORDER 

stays  with  Aunt  Mary  yet,  though  her  beautiful  contour 
of  personal  charms,  and  rosy  cheeks  have  faded  by  the 
inexorable  inroads  of  time,  but  the  beauty  of  soul  grows 
like  "pure  gold"  with  the  burnishing  of  time.  She  was 
the  third  generation;  her  eldest  son,  James  Potter,  the 
fourth,  his  son,  Leonard,  the  fifth,  and  his  children  are 
the  sixth  generation  from  the  older  Rhodes. 

Some  years  since,  it  was  said  if  a  stranger  would 
meet  a  man  in  the  neighborhood  of  Turney,  and  say, 
"Good  morning,  Mr.  Potter",  four  times  out  of  five  he 
would  call  the  right  name.  However,  I  don't  think  this 
is  the  truth.  Eldridge  Potter's  descendants  represent 
many  callings,  ministers  and  the  eminent  doctors  of  St. 
Joseph,  Mo.,  Thompson  and  George  Potter,  being  his 
grandsons. 


CHAPTER  61. 


REMINISCENT  OF  THE  PAST. 

Nearly  70  years  ago,  there  came  to  Clinton  County 
two  families.  The  first  was  rather  poor,  however,  was 
able  to  purchase  over  200  acres  of  good  virgin  soil  of  the 
Government,  and  erect  a  (fairly  good  for  that  time)  log 
house.  This  family  represented  (or  claimed  to,  at  least), 
the  "faith  once  delivered  to  the  saints",  and  held  to 
through  all  the  persecution  of  the  dark  Medieval  days  of 
the  Spanish  Inquisition,  claiming  their  faith  was  the 
same  as  the  Albigenses  and  Waldenses,  who  lived  in  the 
mountain  fastnesses  of  the  Alpine  region  of  France, 
Switzerland,  Bohemia  and  other  mountain  regions,  in 
order  that  they  might  escape  the  awful  persecution  and 
burning  at  the  stake,  as  befell  John  Huss  of  Bohemia, 
100  years  before  Luther,  Melancthon,  Calvin  and  Knox. 

Some  of  these  early  Christians  went  to  the  moun- 
tains of  Wales,  and  one  of  their  number  came  to  the 
New  World  settling  in  Plymouth  Colony.  He  remained 
there  a  few  years  and  was  banished  from  that  commun- 

tM 


SEVENTY-FIVE   YEARS   ON    THE   BORDER 

ity  for  the  bold  denunciation  of  infant  baptism,  claiming 
that  immersion  in  water  of  repentant  believers  was  the 
only  Scriptural  baptism,  and  a  purely  democratic  church 
government  was  the  practice  of  early  Christians.  Hence, 
the  Puritan  colonists  banished  him.  He  went  to  Rhode 
Island  and  formed  a  colony  of  his  co-religious  believers, 
and  today  I  believe,  Rogers  Williams  of  Plymouth 
Colony  fame,  is  recognized  as  the  Father  of  the  Baptist 
denomination  in  America,  all  over  the  Christian  world. 

The  other  good  family  I  have  in  mind,  were  follow- 
ers of  Calvin,  Knox,  Wesley  and  many  other  illustrious, 
early  Christians  of  the  Reformation,  who  believed  that 
pouring  of  water  on  the  infants  of  believing  parents  by 
ordained  ministers,  was  Scriptural  baptism,  whether  the 
infant  had  repented  and  believed  or  not.  I  must  confess 
this  is  an  interpretation  of  the  Scriptures  concerning 
baptism  which  (perhaps  by  lack  of  faith)  I  can't  under- 
stand. However,  their  daily  walk,  Christian  charity  and 
benevolent  acts  were  such,  that  one  not  knowing,  could 
not  tell  whether  they  had  been  immersed  in  water,  or 
had  water  poured  on  their  heads  for  Christian  baptism. 
Contention  over  these  old  church  dogmas  (I  am  glad  to 
•ay)  seems  to  be  relegated  to  the  past,  and  a  true  Chris- 
tian spirit  prevails  in  all  modern  denominations. 

The  two  families  referred  to  were  only  specimens 
of  many  other  families  in  the  community  before  the 
great  war  struggle.  There  were  grown  up  men  and 
women  in  each  of  the  families.  The  representatives  of 
Calvin  and  Knox  were  evidently  of  the  Cavalier  aristo- 
cratic tendencies  of  the  middle  and  eastern  southland 
states.  Their  warm  hearted  generosity  in  entertaining 
their  invited  guests  was  a  sure  indication  of  their 
nativity. 

These  families  were  good  friends  and  many  happy 
evenings  were  spent  in  social  intercourse  until  the  dark 
mantle  of  war  cast  a  gloom  over  all  social  gatherings, 
as  well  as  family  visiting.  When  the  parting  of  the 
ways  at  last  came,  the  one  took  the  side  of  the  Union, 
the  other  (natives  of  the  hospitable  southland)  took  the 

155 


SEVENTY-FIVE   YEARS   ON    THE    BORDER 

•ide  of  the  "Lost  Cause".  On  the  occasion  of  his  last 
social  visit  (and  he  loved  to  make  those  visits  for  he 
thought  there  was  no  such  good  girl  in  all  the  world  as 
one  of  these,  and  has  not  changed  his  mind  much  to  this 
day,  more  than  50  years  since),  this  beautiful  girl  essayed 
to  pin  a  red,  white  and  red  rosette  to  the  lapel  of  his 
coat.  However  much  he  would  have  liked  to  have 
pleased  this  amiable  young  lady,  he  almost  rudely  de- 
clined the  proffered  decoration. 

They  parted  then  and  there,  so  far  as  social  inter- 
course was  concerned,  the  man  dividing  his  time  be- 
tween his  private  affairs  and  his  military  obligations  to 
the  Flag  of  the  Union  he  loved  so  well.  He  was  a  mem- 
ber of  a  Militia  Company  at  Cameron. 

One  day  some  two  or  more  years  after  the  rosette 
episode,  he  went  to  Cameron  (he  despised  lying  around 
in  camp  idle,  hence,  was  at  home  a  good  part  of  the 
time),  and  some  of  his  comrades  told  him  the  long 
promised  new  uniforms  had  arrived,  exhibiting  those 
drawn  by  them.  He  hastened  to  the  commissary  for  his 
•uit,  but  found  left  only  "Hobson's  choice.".  I  happened 
to  see  him  immediately  after  he  got  into  his  ill  fitting 
soldier  toggery ;  it  would  have  made  a  heathen  idol  laugh 
to  see  how  he  didn't  enjoy  his  new  clothes.  After  more 
than  fifty  years,  I'll  try  to  describe  their  fit. 

The  pants  seemed  to  have  been  made  for  a  lager 
beer  guzzler,  stomach  very  capacious  and  legs  awfully 
short.  There  was  quite  a  belt  of  exposed  leg  between 
the  top  of  his  sox  and  the  bottom  of  the  breeches,  and 
the  blouse,  or  round-about,  was  hardly  big  enough  for  a 
12  year  old  boy,  so  there  was  a  good  wide  expanse  of 
open  country  between  the  top  of  his  pants  and  the  bot- 
tom of  the  blouse ;  he  looked  miserable,  and  I  learned  af- 
terwards, he  felt  miserable,  too. 

About  the  time  he  was  uniformed,  I  noticed  a  lady 
hitching  (I  think  a  black  horse)  to  a  post  just  south  of 
the  H.  &.  St.  Joe  depot.  This  patriot  seemed  to  watch 
that  good  looking  young  lady  pretty  closely,  loafing 
around  in  the  vicinity  of  the  horse  with  a  side  saddle. 

156 


SEVENTY-FIVE    YEARS    ON    THE    BORDER 

Finally,  the  lady  came  along  with  some  bundles  which 
looked  like  dry  goods.  Our  uniformed  friend  started  in 
the  direction  of  the  lady,  who  was  going  toward  her 
horse.  I  learned  afterwards  what  was  said  between  them 
(the  lady  and  heroic  soldier) ;  he  whispered  it  to  me  one 
evening  when  stilly  night  was  closing  o'er  us. 

He  asked  permission  to  help  her  to  mount.  Now  this 
hero  had  been  reading  some  Medieval  History  about  the 
Plumed  Knights  who  marched  with  Henry  of  Navarre 
to  Jerusalem  to  rescue  the  Holy  Sepulchre  from  the 
hand  of  the  infidels,  and,  of  course,  concluded  that 
knight  errantry  was  the  proper  thing  on  this  occasion. 
But  I've  gotten  clear  off  my  narrative  of  an  incident 
which  really  occurred.  The  proffered  aid  she  smilingly 
accepted.  I  guess  she  smiled  at  the  ludicrous  appearance 
of  her  chivalrous  knight.  When  she  was  mounted  and 
foot  in  stirrup,  she  graciously  thanked  him,  saying  she 
did  not  know  that  any  one  in  the  camp  cared  anything 
for  her,  and  telling  him  she  hardly  deserved  such  kind- 
ness, considering  the  past.  When  it  came  to  the  soldier's 
time  to  talk,  he  had  such  a  lumpy,  choking  sensation  in 
his  throat,  he  could  not  for  the  life  of  him,  at  that  time, 
more  than  mutter  something  about  'twas  a  soldier's  duty 
to  protect  a  fair  lady,  intimating  that  the  courtesy  of 
thanks  was  hardly  necessary.  And  yet,  if  he  had  owned 
worlds,  I  believe  at  th2t  time  he  would  have  lain  them 
at  her  feet. 

I  learned  afterwards  that  he  waited  and  hoped  till 
"Hope  long  deferred  maketh  the  heart  sick",  and  finally 
worshiped  at  another  shrine.  I  will  not  mention  the 
names  of  hero  or  heroine  of  this  little  "Allegory",  as  they 
are  both  yet  living,  the  one  nearing  78  and  the  other  75 
years. 

If  the  good  lady  should  chance  to  read  this  little 
romance,  it  will  not  be  necessary  for  any  one  to  tell  her 
the  name  of  that  gallant  knight,  the  hero  of  this  story. 

Midway  Place,  Dec.  11,  1911. 

157 


SEVENTY. FIVE   YEARS    ON    THE    BORDER 

j 

CHAPTER  62. 


DAVE  O'DONNELL. 

When  I  first  knew  David  O'Donnell,  he  lived  just 
south  of  Cameron  Junction,  on  land  recently  owned  by 
Mr.  Jas.  Bohart.  He  came  to  this  state  and  neighbor- 
hood about  the  year  1842,  from  Tuscarawas  Co.,  Ohio. 
Mr.  O'Donnell  was  one  of  those  hardy  pioneers,  who 
shrank  not  from  any  obstacles  that  hard  work,  economy 
and  perseverance  could  overcome.  He  hewed  out  of  the 
wilderness  three  large  farms  while  I  knew  him.  He  went 
to  California  in  1850,  staying  there  some  two  or  three 
years,  returning,  as  nearly  all  the  early  gold  seekers  did 
at  that  time,  via  Panama  and  New  York  and  Chicago. 
The  entire  cost  of  returning  was  about  $400.00  in  gold,  at 
that  time,  and  took  about  two  month's  time  to  accom- 
plish. 

Upon  returning,  he  went  to  work  on  his  farm,  now 
owned  by  Mr.  Thos.  Jones,  on  the  Cameron  and  Mirabile 
road.  At  the  same  time,  he  hewed  out  timber  for  a  heavy 
frame  water  power  saw  mill,  which  was  located  one- 
fourth  mile  west  of  the  County  line  bridge  on  Shoal 
Creek.  This  mill  was  at  that  time,  badly  needed,  but  ow- 
ing to  the  millwright's  wrong  calculation,  and  setting  the 
water  wheels  too  low,  with  insufficient  width  of  race,  the 
water  soon  after  being  turned  on,  backed  up  and  drowned 
the  power  of  the  small  fall,  hence  did  very  little  work. 
I  yet  have  some  lumber  on  my  horse  barn  which  was 
sawed  in  this  mill.  It  had  only  a  temporary  brush  dam 
which  soon  washed  away,  and  the  mill  was  abandoned. 
Soon  after,  Mr.  John  T.  Jones  bought  the  farm  on  which 
it  was  situated.  This  mill  was  the  last  attempt  to  saw, 
or  grind  by  water  power  in  the  county. 

After  selling,  Mr.  O'Donnell  moved  on  a  tract  of 
320  acres  five  miles  southeast  of  Cameron,  and  made  of  it 
a  good,  productive  farm,  and  he  lived  there  until  his 
death  which  occurred  about  18  or  19  years  ago,  at  the 
good  old  age  of  over  80  years. 

168 


SEVENTY-FIVE   YEARS   ON    THE    BORDER 

I  doubt  if  ever  another  man,  up  to  his  death,  lived 
in  Clinton  County,  who  had  done  as  much  hard  labor  as 
had  David  O'Donnell.  However,  he  lived  at  the  time  of 
his  death,  and  for  many  years  before,  in  Caldwell  County, 
just  about  one-fourth  of  a  mile  from  the  county  line. 

He  had  gotten  in  debt  some  on  another  big  tract  of 
land,  and  the  war  coming  on,  this  debt  was  foreclosed 
and  left  him  almost  penniless  with  a  large  family.  Two 
of  his  grown  sons  and  a  daughter  dying  about  this  time, 
helped  to  drag  him  down  financially,  and  had  he  not  had 
a  courage  that  knew  no  such  word  as  "Fail",  he  would 
probably  have  remained  a  tenant  the  balance  of  his  life. 
I  know  of  but  two  of  his  children  now  living  (since  the 
death  of  Geo.  W.  P.  O'Donnell,  his  son),  Mrs.  Susan 
Henderson,  of  Kearney,  and  Mrs.  David  Harper  of  Cam- 
eron, Mo. 

In  this  connection,  I  will  say  I  was  well  acquainted 
with  all  his  children  save  one  girl,  by  his  first  wife,  who 
never  lived  in  this  vicinity.  John  O'Donnell,  his  oldest 
son  (by  his  first  wife)  and  I  were  chums  in  boyhood 
days.  He  went  with  his  father  to  California  and  died  a 
short  time  after  arriving  there.  I,  however,  was  better  ac- 
quainted with  George  W.  P.  O'Donnell  than  any  of  the 
rest,  having  been  intimately  acquainted  since  his  child- 
hood, more  than  60  years.  He,  like  nearly  all  my  boy- 
hood and  early  manhood  friends,  has  gone  to  "That 
bourne  from  which  no  traveler  returns." 

When  the  cold  clods  were  falling  on  his  coffin,  I 
could  indeed  understand  the  lines  written  many  years 
since,  "Earth  to  earth  and  dust  to  dust".  He  was  the 
last  of  my  boyhood  male  friends.  There  are  now  only 
three  ladies  left  who  were  in  this  neighborhood  when  I 
first  came  in  1842. 

For  a  man  with  a  very  limited  education,  George 
O'Donnell  was  a  very  good  business  man,  was  a  director 
for  many  years  in  "The  Farmer's  Bank"  of  Cameron, 
and  owned  about  700  acres  of  improved  farms.  He  was 
the  father  of  Mrs.  Roland  Williams  (one  of  my  sons) 
besides  three  other  living  sons  and  one  girl. 

159 


SEVENTY. FIVE    YEARS    ON    THE    BORDER 

George  O'Donnell  made  most  of  his  property  by  in- 
dustry, frugality  and  close  attention  to  his  own  business, 
and  died  in  the  hope  of  a  blessed  immortality.  He  was 
born  about  the  year  1843,  three  miles  east  of  Cameron, 
on  a  farm  he  since  bought  and  lived  on  so  many  years, 
but  had  a  residence  in  Cameron,  where  he  died.  His 
wife's  maiden  name  was  Julia  A.,  daughter  of  Samuel 
Wilhoit,  an  early  settler,  eight  miles  south  of  Cameron. 
She  is  left  to  mourn  the  loss  of  a  faithful  husband  and 
good  citizen.  The  name  of  O'Donnell  will  live  a  good 
while  after  we  are  gone. 

Midway  Place,  Nov.  12th,  1911. 


CHAPTER  63. 


A  TRIP  ON  THE  STEAMBOAT, 
"MORNING    STAR." 

Having  a  small  interest  in  the  land  our  grandfather 
Luke  Williams  left  at  his  death,  which  occurred  about 
the  year  1832  or  S3,  five  miles  west  of  Boonville,  Mo., 
I  boarded  the  splendid  little  steamer,  "Morning  Star",  at 
Weston,  Mo.,  the  first  steamboat  on  which  I  had  ever 
traveled,  in  June,  1856,  bound  for  Boonville,  and  a  gay 
crowd  it  was  on  that  Ohio  River  boat  which  was  making 
an  excursion  up  the  Missouri  River  to  St.  Joseph.  They 
had  along  a  splendid  string  orchestra,  as  well  as  a  full 
brass  band,  which  discoursed  fine  music  on  nearing  the 
towns  where  they  proposed  landing.  They  had  on  board 
the  elite  of  the  cities  of  Cincinnati,  Louisville  and  St. 
Louis,  and  a  menu  equal  to  that  of  the  Baltimore  Hotel 
of  Kansas  City,  today.  With  the  almost  continuous 
round  of  dancing,  waltzing  and  eating,  I  can  tell  you  I 
felt  like  the  traditional  "poor  boy  at  a  frolic",  and  made 
myself  as  scarce  as  possible. 

This  fine  boat  went  right  along  with  very  little 
trouble  with  sand  bars;  however,  she  stuck  a  time  or 
two  in  the  vicinity  of  Dewitt,  Carroll  County,  but  lifting 

160 


SEVENTY. FIVE   YEARS   ON    THE   BORDER 

her  bow  with  capstan  and  block,  backed  off  and  passed 
on  down  the  muddy  current.  On  this  trip  I  saw  Kansas 
City  for  the  first  time.  It  looked  from  the  boat  to  be 
built  (on  the  good,  wide  wharf  on  which  was  piled  lots 
of  merchandise,  part  of  which  was  covered  with  big  tar- 
paulins) up  a  deep  gulch  with  a  street  or  roadway,  cut 
out  on  one  side  of  the  gulch.  However,  I  couldn't  see 
up  the  gulch  any  distance;  it  was  too  crooked.  I  think 
since  I  have  become  familiar  with  the  city,  that  gulch 
was  Main,  or  Delaware  street.  I  think  the  boat  landed 
near  where  the  big  power  house  is  now. 

After  remaining  a  while,  taking  some  freight  and 
passengers,  her  whistle  sounded,  cable  and  plank  were 
drawn  on  deck,  and  she  swung  her  pretty  prow  into  the 
current  and  away  she  glided,  amid  the  strains  of  her 
band.  Without  anything  worth  further  mentioning,  I 
arrived  at  the  place  of  my  nativity  22  years  before.  I 
visited  the  double  log  cabin,  belonging  to  Captain  Ham- 
mond, in  which  I  was  born.  My  parents  were  staying 
with  his  wife  while  he  was  gone  to  Santa  Fe  on  a  trading 
expedition.    This,  my  birth,  occurred  in  May  1834. 

I  was  in  my  grandfather  Williams'  old  cabin,  and 
had  a  good  drink  of  fine  water  at  his  old  well.  I  visited 
his,  and  also  my  mother's  father's  graves  under  a  wal- 
nut tree,  not  far  from  the  lonely  cabin,  off  quite  a  dis- 
tance from  the  road,  with  rough  stones  from  the  creek 
for  markers,  and  I  wonder  today  if  those  graves  are 
plowed  over.  Let  that  be  as  it  may,  they  will  be  found 
when  the  last  trumpet  shall  sound. 

It  was  on  my  return  trip  that  I  got  the  first  inkling 
of  what  was  coming  five  years  later.  When  I  had  ac- 
complished what  I  had  gone  for,  I  boarded  a  steamer, 
"The  Star  of  the  West",  a  regular  freight  and  passenger 
boat,  bound  up  river.  I  met  with  one  incident  which  I 
will  always  remember,  which  occurred  at  Lexington. 
The  boat  had  about  100  men  from  the  New  England 
states  aboard,  bound  for  Kansas.  They  all  had  Sharp's 
rifles,  the  best  long  range  guns  of  that  period.  When 
the  boat  approached  the  town,  there  was  on  the  wharf, 

161 


SEVENTY-FIVE    YEARS    ON    THE    BORDER 

one  or  two  pieces  of  cannon  loaded  and  shotted  with 
solid  shot,  and  manned  by  ample  force  to  sink  the  boat 
in  ten  minutes,  if  she  disobeyed  their  order  to  round  to 
and  tie  up,  which  order  she  obeyed  instanter.  An  armed 
company  of  Missourians  came  on  that  boat  and  took  the 
last  gun  and  pistol  they  could  find,  offered  no  remunera- 
tion to  their  owners,  telling  those  Massachusetts  emi- 
grants they  should  be  thankful  to  get  off  that  easily.  They 
then  allowed  the  boat  to  proceed. 

It  was  about  two  o'clock  in  the  night,  when  the  boat 
was  rounded  to  and  I  was  asleep  at  the  time  and  did 
not  see  any  of  the  transaction  above  described,  but  a 
madder  set  of  men  I've  never  seen.  They  swore  ven- 
geance on  border  ruffians,  and  history  recounts  the  many 
bloody  scenes  this,  and  other  outrages  on  both  sides,  fol- 
lowed up  to,  and  through,  the  troublous  times  prior,  to, 
and  through  the  four  terrible  years  of  war  on  the  Border. 


CHAPTER  64. 


hiram  a.  McCartney. 

Hiram  A.  McCartney  was  born  in  Harrisburg,  Va., 
A.  D.,  1821,  died  on  his  farm  A.  D.,  1882,  his  two  sisters, 
the  elder  M.  Jane,  and  Harriet,  keeping  house  for  him 
till  they  married,  and  his  older  sister,  Mrs.  Jas.  Steele 
continuing  to  do  so  until  his  death. 

It  is  difficult  in  writing  this  short  biographical 
sketch  of  my  old  time  friend,  who  was  a  friend  in  need 
(a  true  friend),  to  find  language  to  adequately  express 
my  gratitude  for  the  many  favors  and  acts  of  kindness 
and  words  of  encouragement  while  I  was  a  poor,  father- 
less boy. 

Many  is  the  time  I've  been  at  public  vendues  when 
he'd  come  to  me  and  say,  "Jimmv»  if  you  need,  or  want 
any  of  this  property,  buy  it  and  I'll  go  on  a  note  with 
you."  Then  is  it  any  wonder  that  the  silent  tear  invol- 
untarily falls  to  the  memory  of  Hiram  A.  McCartney, 

ltv: 


SEVENTY-FIVE   YEARS   ON    THE    BORDER 

my  friend  from  early  boyhood  to  his  death.  Mr.  Mc- 
Cartney was  not  only  my  friend,  but  was  the  friend  of 
the  widow  and  orphan,  as  well  as  the  rich  and  great. 
His  whole  life  was  devoted  to  doing  good  to  others. 
When  I'd  ask  him  why  he  never  married,  he'd  always 
say,  "My  sisters  and  orphaned  nephews  and  nieces  are  a 
sacred  charge  I've  taken  on  myself,  and  this  charge  I'll 
keep."  I  know  that  Hiram  McCartney  loved  a  good  and 
amiable  young  lady,  one  of  my  near  neighbors,  for  he 
told  me  so  many  times  that  he  loved  the  ground  she 
walked  on,  and  there  is  but  little,  if  any,  doubt  exists  in 
my  mind  that  he  could,  and  would,  have  married  this 
good  woman  had  he  not  long  before  resolved  to  stand  by 
his  sisters.    This  is  only  one  of  the  tragedies  of  life. 

At  the  time  of  his  death,  Mr.  McCartney  stood  high 
in  financial  and  business  circles.  A  short  time  before, 
Mr.  R.  J.  House,  who  was  running  the  first  bank  estab- 
lished in  Cameron,  had  closed  the  door  of  the  old  Deposit 
Bank,  thereby  causing  considerable  excitement  and  dis- 
trust of  individual  banking  concerns  locally.  It  was  then 
that  Ex-Governor  George  Smith  and  Hiram  McCartney 
commenced  canvassing  for  subscriptions  for  a  new  joint 
stock  corporation,  to  be  called  "The  Farmers'  Bank  of 
Cameron."  With  two  such  men  of  undoubted  integrity 
and  honesty  at  the  helm,  it  was  but  a  short  time  until  the 
required  stock  was  taken,  and  Hiram  McCartney  was 
unanimously  elected  first  president  of  this  Farmers' 
Bank  of  Cameron.  When  Gov.  Smith  and  Mr.  McCart- 
ney visited  me  for  subscription  to  the  stock,  telling  me 
it  should  be  run  on  honest,  business  principles,  it  took  no 
arguments  to  induce  me  to  take  stock  in  this  new  and 
untried  enterprise,  and  it  proved  a  great  success  from 
the  beginning.  But  neither  of  these  life  long  friends  of 
mine  lived  long  enough  to  enjoy  the  fruition  of  the  suc- 
cess they  so  well  merited.  I  finally  bought  Mr.  Cartney's 
stock  of  his  administrator,  and  was  honored  with  the 
election  of  director  and  vice-president  of  the  institution 
for  nearly  twenty  years  in  succession. 

Hiram  McCartney,  in  his  younger  days,  was  a  great 

163 


SEVENTY-FIVE   YEARS    ON    THE    BORDER 

lover  of  little  dancing  cotillion  parties,  and  was  popular 
with  all  the  young  ladies;  was  an  enthusiast  for  singing 
societies,  though  I  never  heard  him  try  to  sing,  or  even 
whistle,  a  note  in  music.  He  was  especially  fond  of  de- 
bating, and  many  is  the  time  I  have  enjoyed  his  logic; 
however,  his  rhetoric,  like  my  own,  was  not  equal  to  that 
of  Demosthenes  or  Cicero.  One  of  his  efforts  I'll  never 
forget.  The  subject  of  debate  that  night,  was, — "Re- 
solved, That  a  smoky  chimney  is  a  greater  torment  than 
a  scolding  wife."  McCartney  took  the  negative  side,  and 
after  a  good,  long  funny  speech,  brought  the  house  down 
with  his  denouncement,  as  follows:  "Why,  Mr.  Chair- 
man, there  is  no  more  comparison  between  a  smoky 
chimney  and  a  scolding  wife,  than  there  is  between  a 
little  nigger  and  a  dark,  foggy  night."  He  won  the  de- 
cision. 

The  last  public  speech,  or  talk,  I  ever  heard  him 
make,  and  I  think  this  was  the  last  he  made,  was  at  a 
Sunday  School  picnic  south  of  Cameron,  near  the  Mc- 
Cartney Spring  (named  after  him,  its  owner,  later  on). 
When  called  on  to  make  a  talk  to  the  boys  and  girls  of 
the  Sunday  School,  he  arose,  greeted  the  school  and  aud- 
ience in  his  usual  pleasant,  manner,  but  leaving  out  his 
usual  cold  logic,  warming  with  his  subject  into  a  fervor 
and  eloquence  that  astonished  his  old  time  friends  who 
were  present,  telling  the  young  people  of  the  royal  path 
of  life,  and  of  the  reward  at  the  end  of  a  well  spent  life. 

It  is  now  about  thirty  years  since  I  heard  this  little 
talk  and  from  my  present  view  point,  it  looks  as  though 
he  had  a  presentment  this  would  be  his  last  public 
chance  to  do  good  to  others,  which  proved  to  be  only  too 
true.  It  was  the  last  time  I  ever  saw  him,  and  a  pleas- 
ant memory  it  surely  is. 


Midway  Place,  Nov.  7th,  1911. 


161 


hiram  a.  McCartney 


SEVENTY-FIVE   YEARS   ON   THE   BORDER 


CHAPTER  65. 


A  WAR  TIME  DANCE  AT  MIKE  MOORE'S,  FIVE 

MILES  NORTH  OF  CAMERON  ON  THE 

OLD  WHITTAKER  MILL  AND 

MAYSVILLE  ROAD. 

I  owned  a  good  team  and  made  a  great  big,  two- 
seated  sleigh  to  fit  just  such  occasions,  so  a  few  of  us 
soldier  boys  arranged  to  have  a  good  sleigh  ride  and  little 
dance  at  the  jovial,  good,  old  Uncle  Mike's,  as  we  called 
him.  We  sent  Mr.  Moore  and  his  wife  word  what  they 
might  expect  on  a  certain  night  a  day  or  two  later.  We 
didn't  dare  put  it  off  many  days  as  the  treacherous  south 
wind  might  spoil  our  sleigh  ride.  I  remember  now  of 
only  two  sleighs  going  from  Cameron.  I  was  fixed  to 
carry  two  couple.  I  think  now  that  Jack  Thomas  was 
the  owner  of  the  other  sleigh,  and  had  along  his  best  girl, 
Miss  Lizzie  Fisher.  Pardon  me  here  for  unveiling  the 
life  tragedy  of  poor  Jack  Thomas,  after  which  I'll  pro- 
ceed with  the  sleigh  ride  and  dance  at  "Uncle  Mike's". 

Jack,  as  all  the  young  people  in  Cameron  and  vicin- 
ity knew,  was  desperately  in  love  with  Lizzie,  and 
whether  she  reciprocated  his  love  I  never  knew;  on  sev- 
eral occasions  I  had  hinted  it  to  her.  I  was  then  not 
quite  so  bashful  and  choky  when  I  wanted  to  talk  to  a 
pretty,  vivacious  girl  as  I  have  described  myself  on 
several  other  occasions;  war  time  had  taken  all  that  out 
of  me.  To  show  my  esteem  for  Jack,  and  incidentally  for 
Lizzie,  he  and  she  and  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Culver  were  guests 
at  my  infair  dinner.  Jack  was  true  to  his  love,  and 
they,  I  think,  kept  company  for  awhile  after  the  war, 
when  finally  she  married  a  fine  young  man  and  moved 
away,  I  think,  to  St.  Joseph,  and  both  are  dead,  I  be- 
lieve.   Since  writing  the  above  I  heard  she  is  yet  living. 

Jack  still  ran  his  livery  business  but  had  a  partner. 
The  town  springing  up  like  a  mushroom  after  the  war 
ended,  they  decided  to  buy  some  more  buggies,  and  Jack 
told  his  partner  he  would  go  to  Quincy  and  buy  some 

165 


SEVENTY-FIVE   YEARS    ON    THE    BORDER 

new  stock.  So  they  collected  and  got  together  what 
ready  money  they  could  scrape  up,  and  Jack  started  to 
Quincy,  and  was  not  heard  of  for  more  than  twenty 
years.  He  left  enough,  I  heard,  to  make  his  partner 
whole.  Our  neighbor,  Mr.  James  Jones,  came  across 
him  one  day  at  Los  Angeles  in  a  livery  stable,  where 
he  was,  as  I  understand  the  story  that  came  back,  work- 
ing as  a  hired  hand.  Jack  first  denied  his  identity,  but 
finally  admitted  he  was  the  Jack  Thomas  of  Cameron. 
I  think  Mr.  Thomas  P.  Jones,  whose  wife  was  a  cousin 
of  Jack's,  saw  and  talked  with  him  when  he  was  on  a 
visit  a  good  many  years  ago  with  his  brother  James, 
and  brother-in-law,  A.  K.  Crawford,  a  large  real  estate 
dealer  in  the  boom  days  of  Los  Angeles.  While  in 
California  over  twenty  years  ago,  I  visited  Mr.  Craw- 
ford and  Mr.  Jones,  and  Jack  was  there  then,  but  none 
of  us  knew  it. 

Now  for  the  sleigh  ride,  and  "on  with  the  dance." 
Jack  and  his  girl  rode  in  one  of  his  fine  cutters,  which 
made  my  outfit  "look  like  30  cents."  I  think  the  girl 
I  had  under  my  wing  that  evening  was  Miss  Anne 
Heinbaugh,  who  afterward  married  a  Mr.  James  Miller, 
son  of  the  old  time  Dr.  Miller,  who  lived  many  years 
not  far  from  the  little  creek  north  of  old  Uncle  Billy 
Read's,  four  miles  north  of  Cameron. 

My  invited  guests  on  that  sleigh  ride,  I  think,  but 
I  am  not  certain,  it  is  so  long  since,  were  Lieutenant 
(now  Judge)  Henry  of  Cameron,  and  his  girl.  Lieuten- 
ants in  war  time  were  mighty  popular  with  the  girls, 
as  were  all  of  us  officers.  I  never  have  found  out  for 
certain,  but  think  I  was  a  corporal.  Granting  this  to 
be  true,  together  with  my  personal  beauty  (?)  and 
Chesterfieldian  polish  in  drawing  and  ball  rooms,  my 
popularity  with  the  girls  was  not  to  be  wondered  at. 
I  think  the  Lieutenant  had  along  on  that  sleigh  ride 
little  Sis  Stout,  a  daughter  of  old  Grandmother  Adams, 
about  the  first  lady  resident  of  Cameron.  Miss  Stout 
afterward    married    Mr.    John    Nelson,    who   was   head 

106 


SEVENTY-FIVE   YEARS   ON    THE    BORDER 

clerk  in  many  of  the  early  dry  goods  stores  of  Cameron. 
Nearly  everybody  in  Cameron  remembers  John  Nelson. 

On  our  party's  arrival,  we  found  a  good  many  local 
couples  were  already  there.  Uncle  Mike's  good  wife 
"cleared  the  deck  for  action,"  having  only  a  good  sized 
front  room,  wide  porch  and  sleeping  loft  above  it,  with 
lean-to  shed  room  for  kitchen.  There  were  always  two 
or  three  fiddlers,  backwoods  fiddlers,  at  these  "Terpsi- 
chorean"  performances,  who  could  rasp  out  at  a  fearful 
velocity  as  to  time,  if  not  of  rythmic  melody.  While 
two  or  three  of  these  musicians  were  tuning  to  middle 
"C",  the  boys  were  busy  getting  partners.  Notwith- 
standing all  my  personal  beauty  and  polished  suavity  in 
the  drawing  room,  I  hardly  knew  when  the  fiddler 
yelled,  "Salute  your  partners"  and  "balance  all,"  whether 
he  meant  to  kiss  the  girl  you  had  led  out  to  dance  with, 
or  some  other  uncertain  part  of  the  figure  of  the  cotil- 
lion, hence,  I  always  went  a  little  slow  to  see  where 
I  was  at,  and  usually  found  I  was  away  behind,  my 
disgusted  partner  having  to  drag  me  through  the  whole 
figure.  However,  in  the  first  place,  I  always  took  the 
precaution  to  select  some  rather  antiquated  spinster, 
who  had  a  good  deal  of  experience  in  days  gone  by,  but 
the  trouble  with  these  aged  maidens  was,  a  great  many 
of  them  had,  did  I  say  "red,"  no,  auburn,  hair,  which 
I  avoided  when  possible.  However,  in  many  cases 
they  put  up  with,  and  pulled  me  through  the  mazes  of 
the  dance.  The  fiddlers  shouted  "promenade  all,  balance 
and  swing,  alamande  all,"  which  French  call  my  old 
chum,  Dock  McCarthy  used  to  call,  "Hallamaluke." 
But  to  her  credit,  let  her  hair  be  red,  auburn  or  raven, 
she  got  there  on  time  and  seemed  to  enjoy  it,  too,  better 
than  I  did. 

We'd  had  several  "sets"  and  the  young  Grindstone 
boys  kept  dropping  in,  each  one  having  along  his  girl, 
and  only  one  room.  Something  had  to  be  done  or  some 
boys  and  girls,  too,  would  have  to  leave  without  the 
pleasure  of  keeping  step  to  the  rhythmic  measures  of 
melody  rasped  out  by  that  primitive  string  band.    Lieu- 

167 


SEVENTY-FIVE    YEARS    ON    THE    BORDER 

tenant  Billy  then,  as  ever  after,  was  equal  to  the  emer- 
gency. He  was  on  his  "native  heath"  having  been 
raised  within  a  mile  or  so  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Moore.  He 
whispered  something  to  the  good  wife,  and  instantly 
pots,  kettles,  chairs,  stools  and  all  other  movable  fur- 
niture went  into  corners  and  out  of  doors  into  the  back 
yard,  and  the  orchestra  which  was  located  in  the  door 
went  from  front  room  to  kitchen,  when  the  Lieutenant, 
being  accustomed  to  command  men  and  us  subalterns 
to  obey,  called  out,  "All  those  gentlemen  who  have  been 
dancing  come  into  the  kitchen,"  which  was  eagerly 
obeyed  by  a  good  many,  who  not  knowing  what  had 
been  going  on  in  that  shed  room  kitchen  while  they 
were  engaged  in  dancing  or  entertaining  their  partners 
with  soft  talk,  jumped  at  the  conclusion  that  the  gal- 
lant officer  was  going  to  draw  a  weapon  on  them  a  little 
less  dangerous  (but  not  much  in  the  long  run),  than 
the  deadly  revolver.  But  to  their  chagrin,  they  found 
that  Lieutenant  Henry  didn't  carry  a  bottle  then,  any 
more  than  Judge  Henry  does  now.  What  the  gallant 
Lieutenant  was  driving  at,  was  fair  play  to  those  fresh 
arrivals.  Soon  we  had  partners  in  that  lean-to  kitchen. 
Our  partners,  as  usual,  losing  some  of  that  coy  shyness, 
were  equal  to  the  occasion,  and  soon  all  hands  and  feet, 
too,  in  both  rooms  were  keeping  step  to  the  rhythmical 
strains  of  "Hog  and  Sheep  Going  Through  the  Pasture" 
or  the  minor  key  melody  of  the  "Girl  I  Left  Behind 
Me." 

There  were  only  two  of  us  had  any  inconvenience 
in  that  shed  room;  the  Lieutenant  and  I  were  the  tall 
men,  but  he  had  to  duck  his  head  considerably  more 
than  I  did  when  we,  in  promenading,  came  to  the  low 
place  in  the  ceiling.  However,  we  had  a  good  time  in 
that  old  time  house,  as  the  young  people  have  now 
in  marble  and  gilded  halls,  keeping  time  to  the  melo- 
dious strains  of  modern  string  bands.  But,  alas,  I  know 
of  no  living  soul  except  myself  and  Judge  Henry  of 
Cameron,  who  was  at  that  little  dance  at  Uncle  Mike 
Moore's  fifty  years  ago. 

168 


SEVENTY-FIVE   YEARS   ON    THE    BORDER 


CHAPTER  66. 


john  p.  McCartney. 

John  P.  McCartney  was  born  in  Harrisburg,  Vir- 
ginia, March  24th,  1819,  died  January  24th,  1897,  mar- 
ried to  Miss  Angeline  Thomas  in  June,  1861,  who  died 
in  October,  1897.  I  was  well  acquainted  with  this  lady. 
Her  father,  Uncle  Billy  Thomas,  was  a  good  man,  and 
was  one  of  the  early  day  judges  of  Caldwell  County. 
Only  one  of  his  sons  is  now  living,  Thaddeus,  who  is 
in  very  feeble  health;  I  have  known  him  for  sixty 
years.     Died  since  above  was  written. 

I  first  became  acquainted  with  John  McCartney 
about  the  year  1848.  He  was  the  oldest  of  a  large  fam- 
ily, who  came  from  Ohio,  and  I  think  originally  from 
Virginia,  and  was  of  undoubted  cavalier  lineage.  No 
family  in  the  community  in  an  early  day,  stood  higher 
than  did  the  McCartney,  representing,  as  they  did,  the 
warm  hospitality  of  the  southland,  and  to  some  extent, 
its  local  prejudices,  but  not  the  ignorance  and  super- 
stition of  many  sections  of  the  territory  south  of  "Ma- 
son and  Dixon's"  line.  Hence,  it  cannot  be  wondered 
at  that  this  good  family  took  the  side  of  the  South  in 
the  great  war  to  establish  "a  Confederacy,"  whose  chief 
corner  stone  was  the  perpetuation  of  African  slavery 
and  State's  Rights.  While  none  of  the  men  took  any 
active  military  part  in  the  great  struggle  of  the  rebellion, 
I  think  they  did  not  deny  that  their  sympathies  were 
with  the  Confederates.  The  better  class  of  those  who 
stood  firmly  for  the  Union  through  evil,  as  well  as  good 
report,  always  respected  those  who  differed  from  (and 
their  name  was  legion)  in  the  Border  State.  But  there 
was  a  class  of  men,  who  loved  the  Union  for  the  plun- 
der that  could  be  gotten  out  of  border  warfare,  as  well 
as  the  great  premium  offered  for  enlistment,  and  usually 
these  fellows,  who  were  so  brave  on  dress  parade,  were 
the  first  to  "show  the  white  feather"  when  a  little  danger 
was  in  sight. 

169 


SEVENTY. FIVE    YEARS    ON    THE    BORDER 

But  I  am  digressing.  When  I  first  knew  John 
McCartney,  he  was  engaged,  with  his  other  brothers 
and  sisters,  in  farming  and  handling  considerable  num- 
bers of  cattle  and  other  live  stock.  He  also  was  inter- 
ested in  merchandising  at  Kingston,  but  sold  his  inter- 
est in  the  mercantile  business,  and  devoted  his  entire 
time  to  home  interests.  About  this  time,  a  post  office 
was  entablished  at  the  McCartney  farm,  called  "El- 
monte,"  and  John  P.  McCartney  was  postmaster.  I 
think  this  was  the  last  cross  roads  post  office  in  this 
end  of  Clinton  County,  and  it  was  abandoned  when 
Cameron  came  into  existence  with  the  opening  of  the 
Hannibal  &  St.  Joseph  Railway,  the  first  railway  reach- 
ing Missouri  River  from  the  east.  The  writer  saw  the 
first  excursion  passenger  train  pass  Cameron,  which 
ran  from  the  Mississippi  River  to  the  Missouri  River; 
I  think  it  was  in  February,  1858. 

John  McCartney  was  an  enthusiastic  pomologist, 
and  established  the  first  permanent  nursery  in  Clinton 
County,  which  he  operated  for  many  years.  Many  of 
the  old  apple  and  pear  trees  in  the  vicinity  of  Cameron, 
were  raised  in  McCartney's  nursery.  I  have  one  apple, 
and  two  pear  trees  bought  of  him  in  the  year  1860,  yet 
living  and  bearing. 

For  many  years,  Mr.  McCartney  was  an  uncom- 
plaining invalid,  but  he  was  cheerful  to  the  last.  I  vis- 
ited him  a  short  time  before  his  death,  and  offered  all 
the  comforts  I  could,  wishing  him  many  days  yet  on 
earth,  but  he  shook  his  head,  saying  his  career  was 
near  its  end,  which  was  true. 

John  McCartney  will  be  long  remembered  by  those 
who  knew  him  best,  as  a  fine  business  man,  with  more 
than  ordinary  information,  and  a  rugged  honesty  and 
integrity,  and  with  his  declining  health  and  death,  the 
public  lost  a  good  citizen.     Peace  be  to  his  ashes. 

Mr.  McCartney  kept  the  most  accurate  and  com- 
plete diary  and  meteorological  report  from  the  year  1854 
to  1861,  inclusive.  After  an  interval  of  about  ten  years, 
he  again  took  it  up  and  continued  making  daily  records 

no 


SEVENTY-FIVE   YEARS   ON    THE   BORDER 

until  the  time  of  his  death,  which  was  in  the  year  1898.  I 
consider  these  reports  very  valuable  acquisitions  to  the 
horticultural  interests  of  this  section  of  the  country. 

JAMES  WILLIAMS. 


CHAPTER    67. 


JOSEPH  CHARLESS. 

At  the  beginning  of  the  nineteenth  century,  there 
lived  in  Lexington,  Kentucky,  a  man  whose  name  was 
Joseph  Charless,  who  owned  and  ran  probably  the  larg- 
est and  best  equipped  printing  office  and  book  bindery 
west  of  the  Alleghanies,  judging  from  a  book  I  have 
that  was  printed  and  bound  at  that  office  in  the  year 
1806.  I  have  hundreds  of  books,  but  this  book  is  a 
long  way  the  best  bound  volume  in  my  library,  and  is 
now  106  years  old. 

My  mother's  father,  Joseph  Beatty,  was  a  citizen 
of  Lexington  at  that  time  and  knew  Mr.  Charless.  The 
tide  of  immigration  rolling  westward,  Charless  and  my 
grandfather  came  west  about  the  same  time  early  in 
the  nineteenth  century,  Charless  coming  to  St.  Louis, 
and  Beatty  to  St.  Charles  County.  Beatty  was  a  stone 
and  brick  mason,  as  well  as  contractor  and  farmer,  in 
St.  Charles  County,  where  his  farm  was  located  near 
the  famed  Dustin  Bottoms.  Charless  had  a  boy,  Joseph 
Charless,  Jr.,  who  was  a  schoolmate  of  mother's,  her 
father  having  moved  to  the  city  early  in  the  spring  to 
take  contract  work  in  the  then  growing  old  French  vil- 
lage. Among  many  others  I  have  heard  her  tell  of  the 
Choteaus,  LaRoux,  Lucases,  Charless,  etc.  One  of  the 
Lucases  fell  by  the  hand  of  Thomas  A.  Benton  on  Bloody 
Island  in  the  Mississippi  in  an  "affair  of  honor." 

Among  other  stories  of  early  days  in  St.  Louis  was 
that  her  father  and  his  brother  James  being  partners  in 
the  contracting  business,  were  offered  40  acres  of  land 
that  is  now  in  the  heart  of  Saint  Louis  to  build  for  an 
old  French  citizen  a  residence  building.    James  Beatty 

171 


SEVENTY-FIVE    YEARS   ON    THE    BORDER 

objected  on  the  ground  that  they  could  buy  good  land 
back  five  miles  for  $1.25  per  acre.  The  next  season 
another  American  contractor  built  the  same  house  for 
20  acres.  Dying  soon  after,  the  20  acres  made  his  heirs 
a  great  fortune. 

Young  Charless,  when  he  arrived  at  manhood,  went 
into  the  drug  business,  which  finally  grew  into  the  great 
wholesale  drug  house  of  Charless,  Blow  &  Co.  I  can 
remember  well  of  seeing  their  ads  in  the  old  St.  Louis 
Republican,  which  awhile  back  got  kind  of  ashamed  of 
its  name,  and  I  don't  wonder  at  its  wanting  to  change 
its  name  when  I  think  of  some  of  its  editorials  in  war 
time. 

Early  in  the  year  of  1860  (I  think  it  was  that 
year),  the  big  drug  company  had  in  their  employ  a 
young  man  by  name  of  Thornton,  whom  Mr.  Charless 
accused  of  purloining  money  and  falsifying  the  books 
to  make  them  balance,  resulting  finally  in  Thornton 
being  discharged.  He  went  down  the  river  to  Memphis 
and  wandered  around  looking  for  a  job,  but  the  news 
of  the  charge  against  him  by  the  big  drug  concern  had 
preceded  him  so  that  he  could  get  no  work.  He  came 
back  to  St.  Louis,  wandered  around  aimlessly  for  a 
time,  then  finally  armed  himself  with  a  deadly  Colt's 
revolver,  and  knowing  just  where  Charless  would  pass 
for  noon  luncheon,  waited.  Finally  Charless  came  in 
sight.  Thornton  carefully  waited  until  his  quarry  was 
in  point  blank  range,  and  telling  Charless  he'd  ruined 
him,  saying,  "Take  that  and  die,  you  lying  traducer," 
he  fired,  killing  Charless  instantly.  With  the  revolver 
still  smoking,  he  went  across  the  street  and  gave  him- 
self up  to  the  policeman,  telling  him  that  he  had  de- 
liberately killed  Joe  Charless  and  was  ready  to  pay  the 
penalty. 

The  writer  was  in  St.  Louis  the  day  Thornton  was 
hung  for  this  crime,  to  which  he  had  pleaded  guilty 
awhile  previous  in  open  court,  telling  the  court  he  would 
do  it  again  under  the  same  circumstances,  saying  he  was 
ready  to  pay  the  penalty  which  he  knew  the  court  was 

17t 


SEVENTY-FIVE   YEARS   ON    THE   BORDER 

bound  by  law  to  impose  on  him.  His  statement  was 
made  public  next  morning  in  the  papers,  and  I  give 
the  particulars  as  I  remember  them.  One  reason  for 
my  remembering  this  so  long  is  his  victim,  Charless, 
was  a  schoolmate  of  my  mother,  and  his  father  was  the 
printer  of  the  old  bok  mentioned  above. 

I  am  preserving  this  book  and  want  it  handed  down 
with  the  Williams  name  to  posterity,  as  a  memento  of 
the  tragic  ending  of  Joseph  Charless  and  his  murderer. 


CHAPTER  68. 


JOHN  R.  MINER. 

Jack  Miner,  as  he  was  familiarly  called,  came  here 
and  purchased  a  claim  of  the  late  J.  M.  Marlin,  at  the 
head  of  William's  Creek,  about  the  year  1850,  and  lived 
on  this  farm  until  his  death  about  twenty-five  years 
since. 

Mr.  Miner  was  a  good,  honest,  upright,  Christian 
gentleman;  was  a  hard  working,  frugal  farmer,  leaving 
a  good,  well  improved  farm,  and  what  was  better,  a 
good  name,  with  many  friends  and  no  enemies.  Was 
the  father  of  three  sons,  Scott,  Joseph  and  Early,  and 
three  daughters,  Mrs.  Meredith  Adams,  now  Mrs.  James 
S.  Price  of  Wichita  Falls,  Texas.  Mrs.  Price's  first 
husband,  who  died  many  years  ago,  was  the  father  of 
Newton  L.  Adams,  now  and  for  many  years,  a  success- 
ful dry  goods  merchant  of  Cameron.  His  brother,  John 
Adams,  owns  a  fine  farm  near  Turney,  and  a  sister, 
Miss  Betty  Adams,  married  a  successful  boot  and  shoe 
dealer  named  Phillips,  all  excellent  people.  Mrs.  Price 
is  also  mother  of  one  son,  appropriately  named  Sterling 
Price,  a  fine  young  man,  as  well  as  several  highly  cul- 
tured daughters.  Mrs.  Millard  Fore,  another  daughter, 
and  Mrs.  Allen  Nave,  another  daughter  of  Mr.  Miner, 
has  three  respected  children,  and  lives  with  her  aged 
mother,  now  nearing  her  ninety-fifth  year,  perhaps  the 
oldest  person  in  Clinton  County.     Joseph,  her  brother, 

173 


SEVENTY-FIVE   YEARS    ON    THE    BORDER 

also  lives  on  the  old  home  farm.  No  better  man  on  Shoal 
Creek  than  Joe  Miner.  All  these  people  are  worthy  de- 
scendants of  that  good,  honest  man,  John  R.  Miner. 


CHAPTER  69. 


THE  JAMES  BOYS'  FATHER. 


MY  RECOLLECTION  OF  THE  FATHER  OF  THE 

FAMOUS   JAMES   BROTHERS,   JESSE 

AND  FRANK. 

I  have  seen  the  Reverend  James  only  once  in  my 
early  boyhood.  He  and  my  father,  Luke  Williams,  were 
ministers  of  (at  that  time)  so  called  Missionary  Bap- 
tist denomination,  and  both  frequently  preached  to- 
gether with  that  good  man,  Elder  Franklin  Graves,  who, 
after  father's  death,  preached  his  funeral.  They  all 
preached  at  various  times  for  the  old  New  Hope  Bap- 
tist Church  located  just  across  the  county  line  in  Clay 
County,  near  the  farm  of  the  Elder  Collet  Haynes  for 
whom  the  town  of  Haynesville  was  named,  and  in  its 
best  days  was  a  rival  of  Plattsburg,  the  only  towns  in 
Clinton  County  at  that  time,  fifty-five  years  ago.  There 
were,  however,  some  cross  roads  stores,  Barnesville,  Car- 
penter's, Bainbridge  and  Woodward;  Baldwin's  had 
come  and  gone  before  this  period. 

I  remember  well  the  names  of  several  of  the  com- 
municants of  New  Hope  Church,  beside  many  who  at 
that  time,  lived  in  the  vicinity  of  Haynesville  and  Cen- 
terville  (now  Kearney),  including  the  Thomasons,  Har- 
asses (one  of  whom  was  killed  in  a  skirmish  near 
Haynesville  in  war  time).  I  think  young  Harris  was  on 
the  Union  side;  Collet  Haynes,  the  Caves,  Major  Creek 
and  a  good  many  others,  including  Jacob  Greason  and 
Jeff  Hubbard. 

All  early  settlers  will  remember  that  Clinton,  and 
all  Northwest  Missouri,  and  for  that  matter  all  the  vast 

174 


SEVENTY-FIVE   YEARS   ON    THE   BORDER 

territory  in  the  great  Northwest  to  Hudson's  Bay, 
abounded  in  game  in  vast  numbers,  and  in  the  fall 
would  drift  from  the  great  prairie  regions  to  the  partly 
timbered  settlements  of  the  Northwest  counties,  includ- 
ing the  north  part  of  Clinton,  then  sparsely  settled.  Clay 
County  being  longer  settled,  the  game  were  not  so 
plentiful  as  in  North  Clinton.  Hence,  my  father  being 
quite  expert  with  the  old  fashioned  flint  lock,  and  later, 
percussion  cap  lock  rifle,  in  the  fall  of  the  year  killed 
many  of  those  fat  deer  and  turkeys,  which  came  in  herds 
and  flocks,  and  some  winters  would  get  nearly  all  of 
a  field  (the  fields  were  small  then)  of  corn,  which  hap- 
pened not  to  be  gathered  before  the  deep  snows  of  those 
days. 

So  my  father  invited  Brother  James,  Brother  Harris 
and  I  think  Major  Creek,  for  a  hunt,  and  several  others 
of  his  acquaintances  were  in  the  crowd.  They  brought 
along  a  negro  man  servant,  who  drove  a  yoke  of  fine 
big  oxen  to  a  big  covered  ox  tongue  wagon  and  a  camp- 
ing outfit.  Of  course,  those  early  Nimrods,  like  cava- 
liers of  old,  rode  horses,  and  brought  a  pack  of  yellow 
tan,  long  eared  hounds,  and  big  old  muzzle  loading 
double  barrel  shotguns.  They  camped  on  William's 
Creek  in  a  fine  timbered  bottom  belonging  to  my  father, 
just  west  of  the  bridge  (now  in  beautiful  blue  grass  pas- 
ture), just  a  little  north  of  where  I  had  the  picnic  April 
30th,  1892,  to  celebrate  my  fifty  years'  residence  at  Mid- 
way Place. 

'Twas  in  October,  and  I  think  about  the  year  1845 
or  1846,  and  in  the  early  morn  the  hounds  and  hunters 
would  make  the  welkin  ring.  They'd  surround  a  clump 
of  timber  and  brush,  and  when  the  game  would  pass, 
their  firing  reminded  me  of  several  skirmishes  I  par- 
ticipated in  a  good  many  years  after. 

There  were  along  two  or  three  boys.  I  think  one 
was  Mr.  Harris'  boy,  and  the  other  little  fellows  I  now 
think  were  the  famous  James  brothers. 

Mr.  James,  as  I  remember,  was  a  fine  specimen  of 
Kentucky  gentlemen,  with  a  demeanor  indicative  of  a 

175 


SEVENTY-FIVE    YEARS   ON    THE    BORDER 

M 

polished  education  and  aristocratic  surroundings  for  gen- 
erations. I've  been  told  he  had  some  family  troubles 
and  went  to  California  with  the  early  gold  seekers  and 
died  there.  The  later  history  of  the  James  family  is  too 
well  known  for  me  to  add  anything  to  it. 

In  this  connection,  I  might  add  a  little  war  time 
experience  I  had  on  the  road  between  Cameron  and 
Liberty.  Twas  on  this  trip  (now  nearly  fifty  years  ago), 
I  last  saw  the  old  brick  church  building  that  sheltered 
the  New  Hope  worshippers,  as  well  as  the  old  town 
of  Haynesville,  long  since  abandoned  for  the  town  of 
Holt  about  two  miles  southwest. 

It  came  about  in  this  way.  There  was  a  squad 
of  soldiers  who  were  (detached  from  their  command  at 
Liberty)  in  Cameron  which  needed  a  team  to  haul  some 
of  their  baggage  they  were  (either  too  lazy  or  too 
drunk,  or  both)  to  carry  on  their  horses,  being  cavalry- 
men. I  was  in  Cameron  and  they  nabbed  me — "pressed" 
they  called  such  military  achievements  in  those  days. 
No  use  to  remonstrate.  Union  and  rebel  sympathizers 
were  about  on  an  equal  footing,  so  far  as  transporta- 
tion was  concerned  at  that  time.  So  I  went,  of  course, 
arriving  in  Liberty  late  that  night.  I  fed  my  team 
and  ate  a  few  "hard  tack"  with  some  black  coffee.  (I 
don't  know  whether  my  young  friends  will  know  what 
I  mean  by  "hard  tack ;"  go  in  the  army  or  navy  and  you'll 
find  out,  though  they  are  better  now  than  then.) 

The  next  day,  after  having  a  fair  soldier  breakfast, 
my  team  being  somewhat  rested,  I  was  making  ready 
to  go  home  when  some  of  the  soldier  boys,  whose  stuff 
I'd  hauled  from  Cameron,  suggested  to  the  Orderly 
Sergeant  that  they  had  learned  in  Cameron  that  I  was 
a  firm  Union  man  and  was  entitled  to  a  United  States 
voucher  for  my  services,  which  was  true,  and  the  Ser- 
geant proposed  right  then  to  make  out  one,  which  I  de- 
clined. Of  course,  I  liked  pay  for  my  services  (which 
were  not  needed  at  all  on  that  trip),  but  this  was  about 
the  time  the  famous  (or  infamous)  Order  No.  11  came 
out  on  the  south  side  of  the  Missouri  River.     Let  me 

17C 


SEVENTY. FIVE   YEARS   ON    THE    BORDER 

refer  my  young  readers  to  a  little  book  entitled  "Order 
No.  11,"  which  tells  of  the  heart  rending,  bloody  trage- 
dies that  were  enacted  in  Jackson,  Lafayette  and  Cass 
counties  carrying  out  this  terrible  order,  and  while  I 
lived  a  few  years  in  Jackson  County,  temporarily,  there 
were  a  few  of  the  old  stone  smoke  stacks,  silent  moni- 
tors of  that  terrible  time,  still  standing.  While  I'll 
not  vouch  for  the  somewhat  romantic  stories  of  this 
book,  it,  however,  gives  a  very  good  idea  of  those  times, 
as  I  have  learned  from  other  authentic  sources  long 
before  this  book  was  published. 

Clay  County,  at  that  time,  was  full  of  detached 
squads  of  Confederates,  bushwhackers,  and  Union  sol- 
ders, and  nearly  all  of  them  would  fire  on,  and  then 
halt  a  supposed  enemy,  not  caring  a  great  deal  whether 
he  was  a  friend  or  foe,  if  he  had  a  good  horse,  or  some- 
thing they  needed  or  wanted.  I  didn't  care  about  carry- 
ing government  vouchers,  not  knowing  just  whose  hands 
I  might  fall  into  going  home,  and  it  happened  about 
seven  or  eight  miles  out  of  Liberty  I  noticed  ahead  of 
me  a  solitary  horseman,  who  seemed  to  be  on  guard 
on  a  high  hill  in  the  Fishing  River  timber.  I  felt  a  cold 
chill  run  down  my  back,  but  knew  it  would  not  do  to 
be  anything  but  a  farmer  returning  home  from  town, 
so  drove  steadily  on.  The  horseman  took  a  good  look 
at  me  at  about  75  yards  distance  and  rode  off  down  to 
a  little  branch,  and  when  I  got  to  the  top  of  the  hill 
where  he  was  located,  I  noticed  a  camp  fire  and  several 
horses  and  men  in  sight,  but  didn't  investigate  very 
closely  who  they  were,  or  what  their  business  was; 
neither  did  I  allow  much  grass  to  grow  under  my  horse's 
feet  for  several  miles  after  I  got  out  of  their  sight  and 
hearing. 

The  Orderly  promised  to  mail  my  voucher;  I  never 
heard  of  it.  Of  course  a  "John  Doe"  voucher  was  made 
out  for  transportation,  and  probably  a  division  among 
those  higher  up  of  the  proceeds.  Good  people,  thou- 
sands of  them,  were  pressed  into  service  this  way  and 
never  heard  of  the  promised  voucher. 

177 


SEVENTY-FIVE   YEARS    ON    THE    BORDER 


CHAPTER   70. 


TRAGIC   DEATH   OF   WILLIAM    ADAMS. 

This  tragedy  occurred  several  years  before  the  war. 
Young  William  Adams  was  a  brother  of  the  pioneer, 
Smith  Adams,  whom  a  few  yet  living  in  this  vicinity 
will  remember.  Young  Adams  was  visiting  his  brother 
from  his  Kentucky  home,  and  like  many  young  men 
of  that  day,  liked  to  hunt.  He  came  over  one  day  to 
our  neighbor,  John  F.  Alloway's  place,  and  they  went 
out  hunting  on  Shoal  Creek.  The  accident  occurred 
about  one  and  one-half  miles  southeast  of  our  place, 
near  a  tract  owned  by  the  late  Judge  Virgil  Porter, 
not  far  from  the  old  pioneer  Baldwin's  place. 

It  was  in  the  woods  through  which  ran  a  little  path. 
Mr.  Adams  was  on  his  horse  waiting  for  the  deer  to 
pass,  when  Mr.  Alloway  seeing  a  slight  movement  in  the 
bushes  70  or  80  yards  distant  and  Adams'  horse's  ears 
moving,  thought  it  was  a  deer  (the  horse  was  about 
the  color  of  a  deer  at  that  season  of  the  year).  Al- 
loway was  a  dead  shot,  so  he  drew  down  and  fired  at  the 
moving  object,  hitting  Mr.  Adams  and  fatally  wounding 
him  in  the  abdomen.  Adams  holloed  and  Alloway  went 
to  him  and  found  him  fatally  shot.  He  went  to  a  near 
neighbor  and  assistance  was  gotten  as  quickly  as  pos- 
sible. I  think  Dr.  Crawford  was  the  first  help  he  had. 
They  sent  for  the  famous  surgeon  at  Gallatin,  Dr. 
Cravens,  who  probed  the  wound,  telling  them  it  was 
fatal.  I  stood  at  the  bedside  when  he  breathed  his  last. 
Thus  passed  a  splendid  looking  young  man  in  the  prime 
of  young  manhood. 

John  Alloway  was  the  father  of  the  wife  of  the  well 
known  Dr.  Longfield  of  Turney,  who  died  a  few  years 
ago. 

SAMUEL  WILHOIT. 

Samuel  Wilhoit  bought  a  claim  on  the  county  line 
between  Clinton  and  Caldwell  counties  of  that  pioneer 
settler,  Willis  Creason,  who  was  among  the  earliest 
settlers  of  this  vicinity.     Mr.  Wilhoit's  farm  was  about 

178 


SEVENTY-FIVE   YEARS   ON   THE   BORDER 

nine  miles  south  of  Cameron,  and  is  now  owned  by  Judge 
Wallace,  whose  wife  is  one  of  Mr.  Wilhoit's  daughters. 
Judge  Wallace's  people  were  also  early  pioneers  of  Cald- 
well County,  settling  in  the  vicinity  of  Mirabile.  The 
writer  remembers  seeing  the  elder  Mr.  Wallace  more 
than  sixty  years  ago,  who  lived  to  a  great  age. 

Mr.  Wilhoit  was  among  the  best  farmers  of  his 
neighborhood,  also  had  a  fine  orchard.  He  was  a  pillar  in 
the  Christian  Church,  and  the  generations  following  him 
are  too  numerous  to  individualize  in  these  short  bio- 
graphical sketches.    All  were  first  class  people. 

CHAPTER  71. 


HOW  WE  USED  TO  CATCH  QUAILS 

Years  ago  when  there  was  lots  of  hazel  brush  along 
the  skirts  of  timber,  there  were  many  flocks  of  quail, 
sometimes  as  many  as  two  dozen  in  a  bevy.  We  would 
make  a  net  out  of  flax  twine  with  meshes  similar  to  fish 
seins,  about  one  inch  square.  This  net  was  a  long  (about 
20  feet)  hollow  bag  with  nice,  little  hickory,  or  white  oak 
hoops,  which  were  either  colored,  or  smoked  until  as  near 
the  color  of  the  brush  as  possible,  to  keep  them  from 
scaring  the  birds.  This  long  bag  net  was  about  as  big  at 
its  mouth  as  a  common  salt  barrel  of  today.  The  front 
hoop,  in  place  of  being  round,  was  heavier  than  the  round 
hoops,  and  not  fastened  together,  the  ends  being  sharpen- 
ed to  stick  into  the  ground  to  hold  the  bag  firmly  in  place. 
This  bag  got  smaller  toward  the  back  until  it  was  not 
much,  if  any,  larger  than  a  quail  for  some  two  or  more 
feet,  then  was  some  larger  to  the  back  end  of  it,  with  a 
strong  cord  attached  to  a  sharp  pin  of  wood  to  stick  into 
the  ground  after  stretching  the  bag  taut,  thus  staking  it 
into  the  ground  firmly. 

The  bag  set,  we  are  ready  for  the  wings,  which  were 
made  of  same  material  with  meshes,  perhaps,  a  little 
larger.  These  wings  were  usually  about  20  inches  high, 
and  35  to  60  feet  long,  with  nice  hickory  stakes  about  % 

17» 


SEVENTY-FIVE    YEARS    ON    THE    BORDER 

m 

of  an  inch  in  diameter  18  inches  apart,  projecting  some 
4  inches  below  bottom,  and  being  sharpened  and  driven 
in  the  ground  perpendicularly  to  hold  the  wings  (as  they 
were  called)  stiff  against  the  quails'  attack  in  trying  to 
pass  through.  These  wings  were  fastened  securely  to 
the  mouth  of  the  bag  so  that  the  quails  in  passing  along 
looking  for  holes  to  get  through,  on  finding  the  big,  open 
bag  would  go  like  a  speckled  streak  into  it,  and  crawl 
through  the  small  part  and  come  to  the  larger  part  at  the 
back  end  of  the  bag,  and  would  never  find  their  way  back. 
But  some  curious  boy  or  girl  will  ask,  did  the  quails 
go  into  that  trap  of  their  own  accord?  Not  a  bit  of  it. 
In  hunting  quails  with  a  net,  a  damp,  foggy  day  in  fall  or 
winter,  when  the  leaves  were  off  so  we  could  see  them, 
was  the  most  favorable  time  for  success.  We  would 
skulk  through  the  brush  as  quietly  as  possible,  and  first 
locate  the  bevy,  usually  setting  under  some  leafy  bushes, 
if  the  weather  was  a  little  cold,  hovered  up  and  still  as  a 
mouse.  It  then  behooved  us  to  be  still,  too.  We'd  quiet- 
ly slip  away.  If  three  of  us  were  along,  one  would  watch 
the  birds,  and  two  set  the  net,  then  all  would  get  away 
back,  hocking  and  whistling  slyly,  as  it  would  not  do  to 
come  on  them  too  suddenly  or  they  might  get  scared  and 
fly  and  scatter.  So,  if  they  started  to  run,  we'd  watch  and 
try  to  drive  them  so  they'd  strike  about  the  center  of  the 
wide  spread  crotch  wings,  and,  four  times  in  five,  we'd 
get  all,  or  most  of  them.  We've  caught  many  flocks  of 
them  in  nets  just  south  of  our  present  dwelling  not  100 
yards  from  our  door. 


CHAPTER    72. 


MY   EXPERIENCE    IN    PROMOTING   ELECTRIC 
RAILWAYS. 

About  14  years  ago,  I  got  excited  about  Electric 
Railways,  not  knowing  anything  of  their  cost  and  the 
dense  ignorance  of  farmers    (at  that  time)    concerning 

180 


SEVENTY. FIVE   YEARS   ON    THE   BORDER 

electric  railways.  Nearly  every  man  we  went  to  solicit- 
ing right  of  way  believed  we  were  trying  to  beat  him. 
So  I  got  up  a  subscription  to  have  a  preliminary  survey 
from  Cameron  via  the  old  Parkville  grade.  I  got  about 
half  enough  money  to  pay  for  the  work.  We  employed 
a  good  firm  of  competent  engineers,  Burns  &  McDonnell 
of  Kansas  City,  and  ran  levels  from  Cameron  to  a  point 
west  of  Liberty.  Not  finding  a  feasible  route  via  Liberty, 
and  getting  no  encouragement  along  the  line,  we  aban- 
doned that  scheme. 

A  short  time  after,  I  joined  with  an  organization  at 
Liberty  which  was  trying  to  promote  a  line  from  Kansas 
City  via  Liberty  to  Excelsior  Springs,  the  best  thing  at 
that  time  in  sight  out  of  Kansas  City,  provided  we  could 
have  made  arrangements  to  cross  the  Missouri  River. 
We  had  all  kinds  of  promises  from  a  Mr.  Bates,  who 
claimed  he  represented  a  company  which  was  going  to 
finish  the  big  bridge  on  the  Winner  piers.  He  proved  to 
be,  as  we  thought,  only  a  bag  of  hot  wind,  like  many 
other  promoters. 

He  insisted  on  our  sending  a  committee  to  Boston, 
which  we  did,  sending  Mr.  J.  W.  Spratley,  whose  mother 
I  have  since  met.  She  was  one  of  the  shrewdest  real  es- 
tate speculators  at  the  time  I  met  her.  The  other  com- 
missioner was  Mr.  Claud  Hardwicke  of  Liberty,  Mo.,  a 
good  friend  of  mine.  Another  good  friend  in  Liberty,  is 
Mr.  Emmett  Ward,  postmaster. 

Our  committee  visited  Boston  capitalists,  who  talked 
favorably  of  the  enterprise,  but  would  not  take  the  matter 
up  until  we  could  show  a  contract  from  some  reliable 
Bridge  Co.,  to  cross  our  cars.  Meantime,  Bates'  people 
sold  the  old  Winner  piers  and  franchise  to  the  Burling- 
ton— Swift — Armour  Syndicate,  who,  like  the  ox  in  the 
manger,  would  do  nothing  themselves  nor  let  any  body 
else  until  they  grabbed  a  vast  tract  of  land  in  the  bottoms 
adjoining  the  north  approach  to  the  great  bridge  they 
have  recently  finished.  Of  course,  our  Liberty  Company 
came  to  grief.  However,  it  is  a  good  thing  for  Kansas 
City,  as  these  great  capitalists  are  spending  millions  in 

181 


SEVENTY-FIVE   YEARS   ON    THE    BORDER 

improvements   that   no   small    company   could   have   fi- 
nanced. 

I  got  on  to  a  good  many  things  while  with  that 
Liberty  Co.,  which  repaid  me  one  hundred  fold  for  time 
and  money  spent. 


CHAPTER  73. 


THE  BRECKENRIDGES. 

Clinton  County  will  certainly  be  a  prominent  county 
for  historic  names.  It  has  not  only  been  the  home  of  the 
Atchisons,  the  Birchs,  the  Biggerstaffs,  the  Lincolns,  the 
Hughes,  but  many  others.  Yet  a  more  prominent  his- 
torical name  than  even  David  R.  Atchison  lives  in  Clinton 
County.  I  think  all  will  agree  that  the  name  of  Brecken- 
ridge  will  go  down  to  posterity  side  by  side  with  that  of 
Henry  Clay,  John  J.  Crittenden  and  other  noted  men  of 
Kentucky. 

Mr.  Adam  Breckenridge  of  Plattsburg,  I  have  been 
informed,  is  a  cousin  or  near  relative  of  the  historic  John 
C.  Breckenridge  of  Kentucky,  who  was  an  orator  the 
peer  of  the  great  statesman  and  pacificator,  Henry  Clay. 
He  was  also  Vice  President  under  Buchanan's  adminis- 
tration, and  nominee  of  the  Southern  wing  of  the  De- 
mocracy at  Baltimore  for  President  of  the  United  States 
in  1860,  and  upon  the  organization  of  the  Confederacy, 
was  the  chosen  Vice  President,  with  Jefferson  Davis  for 
President.  If  all  these  high  offices  do  not  make  a  man  a 
historical  character,  what  would? 

There  are  two  of  the  older  Breckenridges  in  Clinton 
County.  The  one  near  Stewartsville  I've  met  only  once, 
some  twenty  years  since,  and  he  is  probably  not  living 
now,  as  he  was  quite  old  at  that  time.  Mr.  Adam  Brec- 
kenridge has  three  sons  living  near  Turney,  who  are 
prominent  cattle  and  land  owners,  and  are  withal  excell- 
ent citizens,  creditable  alike  to  their  adopted  state,  as  well 
as  to  that  of  their  nativity,  and  are  fine  specimens  of  the 

18S 


SEVENTY-FIVE   YEARS   ON    THE    BORDER 

illustrious  family,  whose  name  they  bear.  Their  names 
are  Wilmarth,  John  and  Jefferson.  Mrs.  Wilmarth 
Breckenridge  is  an  indefatigable  worker  in  the  Christian 
Church,  never  tiring  in  the  good  work,  and  will  receive 
her  well  earned  reward  hereafter. 


CHAPTER  74. 


WHY  THE  PIONEERS  SETTLED  ALONG  THE 

CREEKS. 

I  have  been  asked  many  times  why  the  early  pioneers 
settled  along  the  woods  bordering  the  creeks,  leaving  the 
fine  prairie  lands  to  be  settled  last.  I  can  well  remember 
when  anything  like  fair,  timbered  land  would  sell  for 
$10.00  to  $20.00  per  acre,  when  at  the  same  time,  the 
finest  land  on  the  big  prairies  could  be  bought  for  $1.25 
to  $2.50  per  acre,  of  the  Government,  and  at  one  time  it 
sold  to  actual  pre-emptors  for  12%  cts.  per  acre. 

The  cause  of  this  inequality  in  price  was, — it  was 
nearly  impossible  to  live  out  on  those  bleak  prairies  with 
the  little  means  the  poor  settlers  had.  No  water,  away 
off  from  wood  and  stone  (the  wood  to  build  houses  and 
make  rails  to  fence) ;  stock  all  ran  at  large  a  good  many 
years  after  war  time.  The  only  way  to  get  water  then, 
was  to  dig  wells  by  hand  and  wall  up  with  stone,  and  no 
stone  nearer  than  the  creeks. 

It  took  four  or  five  yoke  of  oxen  to  plow  that  tough 
prairie  sod,  unreasonable  as  it  seems  now.  Everything 
had  to  be  hewed  out  by  hand.  Then,  there  was  no  shelter 
for  stock  on  the  high  prairies,  no  stock  water;  in  cold 
weather  the  stock  would  run  off  to  the  woods  in  a  storm 
and  stay  there  till  they  died,  if  not  driven  back. 

Then,  with  all  these  things  to  surmount,  why  would 
not  the  poor  man  (with  one  yoke  of  oxen,  two  cows,  one 
or  two  horses,  besides  a  lot  of  hazel  splitter  hogs  that 
would  winter  many  open  winters  in  the  woods  with  little 
feed,  and  less  shelter)  settle  along  the  creeks  near  all 


SEVENTY-FIVE   YEARS    ON    THE    BORDER 

these  absolute  necessities?  He  could  plow  bottom  land 
with  one  yoke  of  oxen,  and  drive  them  himself;  could 
plow  the  corn  with  one  horse  and  shovel  plow ;  could  get 
fencing  timber  and  fuel  off  the  ground  he  plowed,  and 
some  times  raise  50  to  75  bushels  of  corn  the  first  year, 
and  but  very  little  on  tough  sod.  Of  course,  every  one 
would  have  grabbed  the  nice  prairie  if  they'd  had  the 
wealth  and  facilities  of  this  day. 

And,  after  all,  a  great  many  of  the  wealthy  farmers 
are  descendants  of  these  pioneers,  and  are  yet  living  on 
the  same  spot  they  settled  60  to  80  years  ago.  There  are 
many  fine  houses  and  big  barns  on  these  old  farms,  being 
near  plenty  of  stock  water  and  timbered  shelter. 


CHAPTER  75. 


CAPTAIN  JOHN  TURNEY. 

In  this  article  I  will  take  up  where  I  left  off  in  a  for- 
mer article,  entitled,  "My  First  Love  Affair." 

After  having  a  good  dinner  with  Mr.  Wells  and  the 
dark  haired  lady,  whom  I  think  was  married  at  this  time, 
it  was  late  in  the  day.  All  the  militia  forces  had  not  ar- 
rived, so  it  was  decided  to  bivouac  on  the  old  Fair 
Ground  until  morning.  A  pretty  tough  time  we  had.  No 
commissaries,  as  usual,  to  amount  to  anything,  but  to 
their  credit  be  it  said,  the  citizens  of  Plattsburg  came  to 
rescue  by  dividing  liberally  with  us. 

From  this  far  day,  I  believe  Plattsburg  would  have 
been  looted  and  probably  burned,  as  a  military  necessity 
by  the  Confederates,  as  they  were  moving  heaven  and 
earth,  so  to  speak,  to  divert  attention  to  the  north  side  of 
the  river  that  they  might  swoop  down  suddenly  on  Fort 
Leavenworth,  Leavenworth  City,  or  Kansas  City,  and 
capture  much  needed  supplies  and  arms.  In  case  they 
were  successful,  hundreds  of  friends  who  were  at  home 
playing  neutral,  would  flock  to  their  standard  after  arms 
and  supplies  were  assured. 

184 


SEVENTY-FIVE   YEARS   ON    THE   BORDER 

Captain  John  Turney  had  organized  a  Company  of 
Unionist  Militia,  who  were  ready,  at  a  moment's  notice, 
to  fall  in  on  hearing  of  the  approaching  Confederates 
under  Thrailkill,  one  of  the  bands  of  Confederates  which 
terrorized  all  the  counties  north  of  the  Missouri,  and 
Bill  Anderson,  who  was  killed  near  Richmond  (afterward 
accredited  with  the  merciless  killing  of  a  whole  Company, 
save  one  or  two,  whose  horses  were  too  fleet,  getting 
away  to  tell  the  story  of  their  comrades,  who  foolishly  at- 
tacked Anderson  on  the  prairie  near  Centralia,  in  Boone 
County,  throwing  away  their  fire  at  long  range).  When 
Anderson's  men  charged,  yelling  like  demons,  it  caused 
the  raw  militia  horses  to  stampede  on  the  open  prairie, 
whereupon  Anderson's  men  charged  in  among  the  help- 
less militia,  whose  guns  had  been  foolishly  emptied  at 
long  range  (doing  very  little  damage),  and  shot  nearly 
every  man  in  the  head.  I  got  these  facts  from  a  man  in 
St.  Louis  a  few  years  after  the  war;  he  was  an  eye  wit- 
ness to  this  tragedy.    His  story  is  too  long  for  this  work. 

An  incident  which  occurred  the  night  we  camped  on 
the  old  Fair  Ground  west  of  town,  which  scared  many  of 
us  nearly  as  badly  as  we  were  the  next  day  while  under 
fire  near  Camden  Point  in  Platte  County.  Some  loose 
horses  got  frightened  at  something,  ran  and  snorted, 
scaring  many  other  horses,  and  here  they  came,  pell  mell, 
right  through  the  men,  who  were  lying  around  and  under 
the  old  dilapidated  fair  amphitheater,  or  show  ring. 
They  were  surrounded  and  caught,  with  no  further  dam- 
age than  waking  everybody.  They  didn't  wake  me ;  there 
had  been  too  much  excitement  the  day  before  for  me  to 
sleep  amid  such  confusion.  Daylight  found  me  pretty 
well  used  up,  as  it  did  many  other  raw  militiamen. 

I  give  the  story  of  the  killing  of  Captain  John  Tur- 
ney as  I  heard  it  told;  at  that  time  I  had  not  heard  all 
the  particulars. 

Captain  Turney,  on  hearing  of  this  armed  force 
(which  had  looted  Dr.  Crawford's  store  at  Mirabile  and 
killed  a  militiaman,  a  Mr.  Christopher,  on  Shoal  Creek, 
who  was  at  home  on  a  furlough  in  his  soldier  uniform; 

185 


SEVENTY-FIVE   YEARS    ON    THE    BORDER 

they  shot  him  in  the  head — I  saw  him  a  few  hours  after), 
had  his  men  taken  across  the  little  creek  east  of  town,  and 
posted  behind  a  big  rail  fence.  When  the  enemy  ap- 
proached, the  militia  opened  fire  on  them,  and,  as  usual, 
they  scattered,  putting  spurs  to  their  horses,  and  dis- 
appearing in  a  southwest  direction,  carrying  with  them 
some  supposedly  wounded  men;  after  being  repulsed, 
they  never  returned. 

Our  bugles  sounded  "Feed  Call"  at  early  dawn,  and 
by  sunrise  we  were  after  them,  with  fresh  horses,  double 
quick,  and  we  soon  ran  on  their  trail  west  of  town,  head- 
ed in  the  direction  of  Union  Mills.  Every  man  was  or 
dered  to  load  every  gun  and  pistol,  and  use  care,  but  to 
push  his  horse  to  his  utmost.  700  or  800  of  us  going 
helter  skelter  without  paying  any  attention  to  rank  or 
file,  were  strung  out  on  the  prairie  between  Plattsburg 
and  Union  Mills,  in  the  east  edge  of  Platte  County. 
Crossing  the  river,  which,  at  that  time,  was  very  low, 
below  the  mill  dam,  we  hurried  on,  strung  out  on  the 
road  more  than  a  mile  long. 

After  crossing  the  river  some  three  miles  (the  Con- 
federates had  left  the  main  road,  which  at  that  point  ran 
nearly  south),  we  turned  into  a  long,  narrow  lane  run- 
ning west.  This  lane  was  more  than  a  quarter  of  a  mile 
long,  and  was  only  a  private  way  to  a  big  forest  of  timber, 
yet  uncleared.  After  passing  the  lane,  the  road  turned 
into  a  thick  undergrowth  of  brush,  with  many  tall  trees 
interspersed.  Here,  the  Confederates  halted,  and  as  our 
vanguard  approached,  fired  into  them  at  point  blank 
range,  killing  a  militiaman,  by  name,  I  think,  of  Groom, 
but  I  was  too  badly  scared  and  excited  at  that  time  to 
make  much  inquiry.  I  had  often  heard  that  a  lot  of 
frightened  men  had  no  more  sense  or  reason,  than  a 
drove  of  wild,  scared  Texas  steers,  but  I  never  believed 
it  until  this  occasion.  They  got  mixed  up  in  that  brush, 
their  horses  stampeded  from  the  continuous  rattle  of 
musketry  and  revolvers,  and  pandemonium  reigned. 
Our  Captain,  Isaiah  Jones,  had  been  under  fire  in  the 
great  battles  around  Vicksburg,  and  kept  cool,  telling  the 

186 


SEVENTY-FIVE   YEARS   ON   THE   BORDER 

boys  to  pour  it  into  them,  but  the  boys  were  scared  so 
badly  that  they  poured  most  of  their  lead  up  in  the  tree 
tops,  and  the  Confederates  did  about  the  same,  judging 
from  the  way  the  little  twigs  rained  down  on  us. 

Most  of  us  were  lying  down  in  the  weeds.  I  didn't 
like  my  position.  I  had  gotten  over  my  first  scare,  and 
wanted  to  see  where  all  that  racket  in  front  of  us  came 
from  so  I  looked  a  little  ahead,  up  a  path  across  a  little 
open  spot,  and  saw  Andy  Adams  standing  mighty  close 
to  a  friendly  little  hickory  tree.  I  made  for  Andy  and 
that  tree.  He  seemed  as  cool  and  imperturbable  as  a  cast 
iron  Indian  in  front  of  an  early  tobacco  store.  Approach- 
ing, I  said,  "Andy,  is  it  big  enough  for  two  of  us?"  He 
replied,  saying,  "It  will  help  some  if  we  stand  edgewise 
and  close  to  it."  Talk  of  being  on  the  ground  floor !  I'd 
have  given  several  of  those  five  cent,  green  back  shin 
plasters  of  those  days  to  have  exchanged  positions  with 
Andy.  As  it  was,  the  only  shot  I  fired  during  the  whole 
war  was  from  behind  Andy  and  that  little  tree.  I  had 
fourteen  shots  in  reserve.  I  kept  thinking  of  the  tragic 
fate  of  the  Militia  Company  a  few  days  before  at  Cen- 
tralia.  Then  and  there  was  the  only  time  I  assumed  to 
give  command  over  my  superiors.  I  commenced  yelling, 
"Load  your  guns,  quick,  boys;  they  may  charge  on  us 
and  our  guns  empty."  This  skirmish  was  the  only  time 
I  was  under  point  blank  fire  during  the  war. 

I  believe  it  is  due  to  the  memory  of  the  heroic  Cap- 
tain John  Turney,  and  his  fearless  Company,  to  com- 
memorate the  brave  defence  of  Plattsburg  and  the 
County  Records.  Besides,  there  were  many  strong 
Unionists  in  town,  and  they  certainly  would  have  been 
shot,  as  was  Mr.  Christopher  on  Shoal  Creek.  I  am 
willing,  as  a  taxpayer,  to  contribute  to  a  fund  to  have  a 
granite  shaft  erected  in  the  Court  yard  to  commemorate 
this  heroic  deed. 

It  was  said  after  the  war,  there  were  several  men 
with  Thrailkill,  who  knew  every  man's  political  anteced- 
ents in  Plattsburg,  and  some  of  them,  had  they  fallen  into 
the  hands  of  their  implacable  enemy,  would  have  paid  for 

187 


SEVENTY. FIVE   YEARS   ON    THE   BORDER 

their  political  past  with  their  lives,  as  did  many  others  in 
those  days. 


CHAPTER  76. 


THE   EARLY    PUBLIC    MEN    OF    CLINTON    CO. 

While  I  was  too  young  to  be  much  acquainted  with 
many  of  the  early  public  men  of  our  county,  I  will  say 
that  I  have  seen  a  few  times  the  most  conspicuous  man 
up  to  this  time),  who  lived  for  many  years  and  died  in 
Clinton  County,  "General  David  R.  Atchison,"  among 
whose  contemporaries  were  Judge  James  H.  Birch,  with 
whom  I  was  fairly  well  acquainted  in  his  later  years. 
Judge  Birch,  I  think,  was  the  best  orator  Clinton  County 
ever  had  as  a  resident  citizen,  with  few  equals  and  no 
superiors  west  of  the  Mississippi.  General  A.  W.  Doni- 
phan was  one  of  the  former.  The  late  John  T.  Hughes, 
father  of  the  eminent  lawyer,  Roland  Hughes,  of  Kansas 
City,  was  the  historian  of  Col.  Doniphan's  expedition  to 
Santa  Fe  and  the  lower  Rio  Grande,  and  in  his  book 
characterized  Col.  Doniphan  as  the  "Xenophon  of  the 
West."  Doniphan  was  a  fine  orator,  and  a  great  advo- 
cate at  the  bar  of  the  courts,  and  left  an  untarnished 
name  not  soon  to  be  forgotten. 

I  cannot  fail  to  mention  another  one  of  my  early 
friends  and  benefactors,  Thomas  Erskine  Birch,  brother 
of  Judge  Birch.  Mr.  Birch  kept  a  general  country  store 
for  several  years  in  Plattsburg,  selling,  (as  he  did  many 
others  of  the  early  settlers)  our  supplies  and  taking  in  ex- 
change what  produce  we  had  to  spare,  and  crediting  our 
open  account  until  the  end  of  the  year.  Then,  if  we  did 
not  have  the  money  to  balance  account,  would  take  a  note 
and  open  a  new  one.  I  have  yet  in  my  possession  a  note 
in  his  handwriting,  which  I  signed  nearly  sixty  years  ago. 
The  note  was  paid  or  it  would  not  be  in  my  possession. 

A  good  friend  of  mine  is  a  maternal  grandson  of 
Thos.  E.  Birch,  Mr.  George  B.  Harrison,  Vice  President 


in 


SEVENTY-FIVE    YEARS    ON    THE    BORDER 

of  the  great  New  England  National  Bank  of  Kansas 
City.  It  would  seem  the  mantle  of  the  grandfather  has 
fallen  on  his  generations  who  are  still  assisting  his  grand- 
father's friend  and  customer. 

Allow  me  to  express  my  appreciation  of  the  many 
favors  of  the  New  England  National  Bank  for  assisting 
me  in  any  deals  I've  so  far  been  promoting. 

In  closing  this  chapter  of  public  men  of  the  past,  I 
wish  to  remember  my  old  friend  and  contemporary  of 
all  these  long  years,  Col.  James  H.  Birch  of  Plattsburg. 
The  Colonel's  history  is  too  well  known  for  me  to  elabor- 
ate on,  and  had  I  his  versatile  pen  and  polished  diction,  I 
indeed  might  essay  to  write  historical  narratives.  He 
came  to  the  county  the  same  year  I  did,  hence  will  re- 
member many  of  my  characters. 

Another  familiar  name  to  all  old  settlers  is  that  of 
Col.  Winslow  Turner  (perhaps  the  best  penman  that  ever 
made  and  used  a  quill  pen  in  Clinton  County)  as  will  be 
shown  by  examining  the  early  records  he  made  in  his 
well  known  handwriting.  I  now  have  in  my  father's  old 
papers,  an  instrument  in  his  handwriting,  an  order  of 
the  County  Court,  dated  August,  1842,  appointing  Isaac 
D.  Baldwin,  John  Durbin  and  Luke  Williams  (my 
father)  Commissioners  to  organize  Township  56-Range 
30,  as  a  public  school  district,  which  order  was  carried 
out,  and  the  first  public  schoolhouse  in  Shoal  Township 
was  built  the  next  season.  I  helped  build  it  although  but 
a  boy,  and  the  first  free  school  I  went  to  was  in  that 
house,  taught  by  Edward  Matthews,  which,  I  think,  was 
in  the  fall  of  1843  or  44. 

Dec.  22,  1911. 


CHAPTER  77. 


MARKETING  PORK  SIXTY  YEARS  AGO. 

I  give  this  little  story  of  marketing  butchered  hogt 
to  show  to  what  extremities  we  were  pushed  to  get  a 

189 


SEVENTY-FIVE   YEARS   ON    THE    BORDER 

little  ready  money  in  the  days  before  railway  transpor- 
tation reached  us. 

I  think  it  was  in  the  winter  of  1852  that  we  had 
about  six  fat  hogs  more  than  we  needed  for  home  con- 
sumption. We  butchered  them  with  the  intention  of 
hauling  the  pork  carcasses  to  St.  Joseph,  the  nearest  Mis- 
souri River  market,  and  is  yet,  for  that  matter.  It  was  in 
January  and  awful  cold.  I  loaded  them  in  my  wagon  and 
started,  cold  as  it  was.  It  grew  a  great  deal  colder  before 
I  reached  St.  Joseph,  I  remember. 

I  went  via  Plattsburg  and  stayed  the  first  night  at 
the  old  pioneer's,  John  McCowan,  on  Castile  Creek. 
Next  morning,  with  the  mercury  away  below  zero,  if 
we'd  had  any  thermometers  (I'd  never  even  seen  one  of 
them  then),  I  hitched  up  and  started  a  little  late  on  ac- 
count of  the  intense  cold.  The  pork  was  frozen  as  hard 
as  ice.  No  danger  of  its  spoiling,  which  was  one  consol- 
ing fact.  Not  being  very  warmly  clothed,  I  had  to  stop 
frequently  to  warm  at  farm  houses,  but  "the  latch  string" 
hung  out  in  those  days. 

I  worried  along  that  cold  day  and  stopped  five  miles 
out  of  town,  staying  with  a  nice  Kentucky  family  (any 
of  the  people  on  public  roads  would  keep  travelers  in 
those  days).  It  was  at  this  place  I  first  heard  the  music 
of  that  wonderful  (to  me)  instrument  which  my  mother 
used  to  tell  us  about  which  she  had  seen  and  heard  in  her 
girlhood  days  in  St.  Louis,  when  she  was  a  schoolmate 
of  the  Chateaus,  Laroux,  Robidoux's,  Lucasses  and 
Charlesses,  the  "piano."  After  hearing  the  good  lady  play 
a  few  selections,  she  opened  the  lid,  showing  me  the 
stringed  harp  of  the  wonderful  instrument,  which  Jenk- 
ins of  Kansas  City,  if  he  could  find  as  poor  a  one  as  it 
was,  would  be  glad  to  get  a  $25.00  offer  for,  pay  $1.00 
down  the  "balance  like  rent."  However,  it  would  be 
worth  more  as  a  curious  relic  of  the  past,  than  it  could 
be  sold  for  any  other  purpose. 

Being  not  quite  so  cold  next  morning,  I  started  for 
town.  The  road  had  lots  of  pork  wagons  that  morning, 
all  headed  for  market.    There  were  two  or  more  concerns 

190 


SEVENTY-FIVE  YEARS   ON   THE   BORDER 

buying  the  butchered  pork  and  packing  it.  Among  them 
was  a  Mr.  Hamilton  (I  think  this  man  Hamilton  was 
Mrs.  A.  T.  Baubie's  father).  They  all  had  sentinels 
on  the  outposts  buying  these  loads  of  pork.  I  had  learn- 
ed where  I  stayed  with  the  piano  people,  that  Mr.  Hamil- 
ton was  about  the  best  buyer,  and  his  place  was  right  on 
my  route  in  the  center  of  town,  so  I  drove  up  to  Hamil- 
ton's pork  house.  A  gentleman  was  on  the  lookout. 
Hailing  me,  he  asked  if  my  load  was  sold.  I  answered  in 
the  negative,  and  he  came  and  looked  it  over  and  said 
he'd  give  me,  I  think  it  was  $4.75  per  hundred  in  gold 
coin,  so  I  sold  to  him,  and  in  payment  he  gave  me  one  of 
those  $50.00  octagon  gold  pieces  coined  by  Clark  &  Co.'s 
assay  office  in  San  Francisco  for  convenience  of  trade,  at 
that  time,  on  the  Pacific  Coast,  before  the  U.  S.  Mint  had 
been  established  there.  That  was  the  only  one  of  those 
$50.00  coins  I  ever  got  in  trade.  They  were  unalloyed 
gold,  and  were  not  legal  tender,  but  I  never  heard  of  a 
case  where  they  had  to  be  forced  on  any  one  in  payment 
of  any  obligation. 

I  have  now  in  my  shop,  one  big  plane  bought  with 
some  of  the  proceeds  of  that  sale,  besides  a  redeemed  note 
held  in  Plattsburg  for  goods  furnished  us  the  summer 
before.  That  was  the  last,  and  only  pork  I  ever  hauled 
to  Missouri  River  points,  but  later  on,  we  hauled  a  load 
of  bacon  to  Weston,  which  sold  for  7c  per  lb.,  and  those 
hogs  were  fattened  mostly  on  "mast"  and  finished  on 
corn. 

I  will  ask  my  live  stock  friends  how  they  would  like 
to  have  such  facilities  now  for  marketing  their  hogs,  to 
say  nothing  about  cattle. 


191 


SEVENTY. FIVE    YEARS    ON    THE    BORDER 


CHAPTER  78. 


MY  MEMORY  OF  THE  KILLING  OF  JAMES  PAW- 
LEY,    AND    ONE    OF    THE    NICHOLSON 
BROTHERS       OF       CENTERVILLE, 
NOW  KEARNEY,  CLAY  CO., 
MO. 

It  is  a  matter  of  history  that  in  the  first  breaking  out 
of  the  great  Civil  War  many  young  men  (good  men) 
were  persuaded  and  feasted,  and  by  the  alluring  smiles  of 
their  young  lady  loves  and  friends,  were  enlisted  and 
rushed  off  into  General  Sterling  Price's  army  with  the 
hue  and  cry  that  the  Dutch  and  "Black  Republicans" 
had  invaded  the  sacred  soil  of  Missouri.  So  when  it 
came  to  the  test,  these  young  bloods  found  by  their  ex- 
perience on  the  bloody  fields  of  Wilson's  Creek,  Pea 
Ridge,  Cowskin  Prairie  and  many  other  hard  contested 
fields,  that  war,  instead  of  dress  parade  and  picnics  with 
the  alluring  smiles  of  their  sweethearts  and  intended 
mother-in-laws,  was  an  awful  reality,  and  was  well 
named,  many  years  after  by  General  Sherman. 

So,  after  the  campaign  of  one  summer  participating 
in  all  the  hardships,  suffering,  sickness,  hunger  of  the 
campaign,  without  clothing,  commissaries,  or  money, 
their  ranks  decimated  by  the  bullets  of  adversaries  and 
contagion,  many  of  these  early  'Confederate  recruits 
(under  a  proclamation  issued  by  the  Union  authorities 
then,  and  ever  after  controlling  the  state)  came  back 
home  and  took  the  oath  of  allegiance  to  the  old  flag.  (A 
pretty  bitter  pill  for  many  of  them  to  swallow),  but  it 
was  a  ground  hog  case;  they  had  to  or  lay  out  in  the 
woods  and  starve  and  freeze.  Some  of  them  tried  the 
brush  rather  than  submit  to  the  sometimes  cruel  officials 
in  command.  ( It  was  a  mighty  poor  time  in  those  days 
for  social  or  love  affairs),  and  many  of  those  who  came 
back  and  refused  to  surrender  and  take  the  oath,  their 
deadly  opponents  prescribed  for  them,  either  got  them- 
selves killed,  or  their  friends  in  trouble,  or  both,  and  this 

102 


SEVENTY-FIVE   YEARS   ON    THE   BORDER 

was  Border  Warfare,  and  a  terrible  thing  it  was  in  many 
of  the  Western  Missouri  River  counties  all  through  the 
war. 

Young  Pawley,  together  with  a  good  many  other 
young  men  of  the  vicinity  a  few  miles  south  of  here,  en- 
listed at  one  of  these  fine  picnics  spoken  of  above,  held 
near  the  Brooking  school  house.  I  don't  now  remember 
who  commanded  the  company,  but  they  went  south  in 
a  hurry  as  a  company  of  Union  soldiers  lit  off  the  cars 
one  night  about  this  time  and  arrested  a  good  many  who 
were  promoting  this  lively  Confederate  movement,  to 
their  terrible  chagrin.  Deep  and  bitter  were  their  ana- 
themas against  the  "Black  Republicans"  and  Dutch,  as 
they  called  all  Union  men  at  that  time.  They  still  smart- 
ed under  General  Lyons'  famous  "Coup  d'etat"  at  St. 
Louis. 

Young  Pawley,  like  many  others,  came  back  having 
had  the  measles  and  not  fit  for  military  duty  in  winter. 
Cameron,  at  that  time,  was  a  terror  to  Confederate  sym- 
pathizers, hence,  he  stopped  with  some  people  in  Clay 
County  by  the  name  of  Nicholson.  I  have  never  known 
whether  the  Nicholsons,  any  of  them,  were  ever  with  the 
Confederates,  but  think  some  of  them  were.  A  short 
time  after  the  war,  I  became  acquainted  with  their  father 
and  I  formed  a  very  favorable  opinion  of  the  old  gentle- 
man, at  that  time.  Although  I  was  on  the  Union  side,  I'd 
not  have  been  a  bit  afraid  to  have  trusted  myself  as  his 
guest;  even  if  he  had  known  I  had  ten  thousand  dollars 
on  my  person.  I  think  Mr.  Nicholson  was  a  fair  example 
of  many  men  of  the  South.  We  all  know  the  best  men  of 
the  "Lost  Cause"  were  the  last  to  surrender. 

I  got.  the  facts  which  I  herein  state,  from  one  of 
Clay  County's  early  and  best  citizens  shortly  after  the 
great  struggle  closed.  I  think  all  the  older  citizens  of 
Kearney  will  agree  with  me  when  I  say  that  the  good  old 
Baptist  preacher,  Elder  Franklin  Graves,  was  one  of 
Clay  County's  best  people.  Elder  Graves'  story  was  as 
follows : 

"One  afternoon,  I,  together  with  a  good  many  others, 

193 


SEVENTY-FIVE   YEARS   ON    THE   BORDER 

were  in  a  drug  store  in  Centerville,  now  Kearney,  when 
suddenly  a  squad  of  armed,  and  apparently  drunken 
soldiers  in  Union  uniforms,  surrounded  the  building  yell- 
ing and  firing  promiscuously  and  ordering  everybody  to 
surrender.  There  were  several  militiamen,  including  one 
or  two  of  the  Nicholson  boys,  who  then  belonged  to  a 
company  of  so  called  "pawpaw"  militia.  The  so  called 
"pawpaw"  militia  were  mostly  those  returned  Confeder- 
ate soldiers  before  mentioned,  and  there  was,  at  that 
time,  no  great  deal  of  love  for  them  among  Union  sold- 
iers, as  we  all  who  participated  in  the  struggle,  know. 

The  Nicholson  boys,  instead  of  showing  the  "white 
feather,"  out  with  their  pistols  and  guns  and  commenced 
to  return  the  fire.  The  noisy  Union  soldiers  turned  and 
fled  helter  skelter,  and  the  "pawpaw"  militia  after  them 
firing  as  they  went,  killing  one  of  the  soldiers;  I  think 
his  name  was  Bonds,  a  man  who  was  raised  not  far  from 
Haynesville,  if  I  am  right. 

The  whole  country  was  aroused.  A  bunch  of  "paw- 
paw" militia  bushwhackers  had  killed  a  Union  soldier. 
Nobody  ever  stopped  to  inquire  how  it  happened,  but  a 
Union  soldier  had  been  killed  was  enough.  It  got  so  hot 
in  the  vicinity  of  Centerville  that  two  of  he  Nicholson's 
and  young  Pawley  slid  out  and  came  to  this  neighbor- 
hood to  Pawley's  father,  leaving  their  horses  and  then 
going  to  Osborn,  being  afraid  to  go  to  Cameron.  They 
intended,  as  was  learned  afterward,  to  go  to  some  north- 
ern state  to  hide  their  identity. 

They  all  three  boarded  a  morning  train  going  east. 
Word  coming  to  Cameron  (where  a  company  of  Union 
soldier  militia,  in  which  the  writer  was,  I  believe,  a  Cor- 
poral, although  I  never  did  find  out  whether  I  was  a  high 
private  or  an  officer ;  one  thing  sure,  I  was  not  like  some 
of  my  company,  a  pensioner,  was  stationed),  that  three 
bushwhackers,  who  had  killed  the  Union  soldier  at  Cen- 
terville were  on  board  the  train  going  east,  but  the  train 
had  passed  before  the  word  came,  and  so  the  commanding 
officer  at  Brookfield  was  notified  by  telegram.  Upon  ar- 
riving there,  the  two  Nicholson's  and  young  Pawley  were 

104 


SEVENTY. FIVE   YEARS   ON    THE    BORDER 

taken  off  and  condemned  without  a  trial,  and  taken  out 
on  the  prairie  by  an  armed  squad  of  enraged  soldiers  and 
told  to  run  for  life,  firing  on  them  as  they  started  to  run, 
killing  James  Pawley  and  one  of  the  Nicholson  brothers, 
the  other  making  his  escape  in  the  darkness,  the  soldiers 
either  too  lazy,  or  not  wanting  to  follow  him. 

All  we  know  yet  is  what  Mr.  Nicholson  told  after 
the  war.  I  will  say  I  was  a  neighbor  of  Mr.  Pawley,  and 
while  at  that  time  had  but  little  sympathy  for  Rebels,  as 
we  termed  them,  but  when  I  saw  the  good  sister  of 
Pawley  weeping  for  the  fate  hanging  over  her  brother, 
I  went  to  our  officer  in  command  and  begged  of  him  to 
telegraph  Brookfield  to  hold  the  prisoners  until  they 
could  have  a  hearing.  At  the  time  I  thought  they  were 
guilty  and  merited  death.  I  had  not  heard  Elder  Graves' 
story  of  the  fight  then. 

In  connection  with  this  tragic  story,  I  want  to  pay 
a  tribute  to  the  memory  of  Lieutenant,  afterwards  Judge 
Jacob  Estep.  While  standing  around  weeping  apparent- 
ly without  a  sympathizing  friend  in  that  hostile  camp, 
Miss  Dora  Pawley  was  approached  by  Lieutenant  Jacob 
Estep  (who  was  second  in  command,  hence  could  do 
nothing  officially,  and  perhaps  like  myself,  half  way  be- 
lieved that  Pawley  and  the  Nicholson's  were  really  bush- 
whackers, and  by  orders  merited  death) ,  asked  Miss  Paw- 
ley if  she  would  like  to  go  to  Brookfield  to  see  if  she 
could  do  anything  for  her  brother.  She  said  she  would, 
but  had  no  money  or  friends.  Thereupon  he  drew  out 
of  his  pocket  wallet  a  twenty  dollar  greenback  and  gave 
it  to  her.  She  thought  she  would  not  need  that  much, 
but  he  told  her  to  take  it  along  as  she  might  need  it. 
Tears  come  to  my  eyes  to  this  day  when  I  think  of  the 
grateful  look  she  gave  her  friend  and  benefactor. 

I  want  to  say  to  posterity  that  I  think  I  know  as 
much  about  the  Pawley  family  as  any  living  man  out- 
side of  their  own  people. 

It  so  happened  that  three  or  four  armed  men  made 
a  raid  one  evening  just  at  dark  on  our  immediate  neigh- 
borhood and  robbed  several  of  our  good  German  neigh- 

105 


SEVENTY-FIVE   YEARS   ON    THE    BORDER 

l 

bors  of  several  hundred  dollars.  It  so  happened  I  had  at 
the  time  of  the  robbery,  about  $1300.00  with  which  I  was 
going  to  pay  for  grain  contracted.  I  hid  it  in  a  pile  of 
brick  for  awhile,  but  the  mice  found  it  and  commenced  to 
make  nests  of  it,  so  I  decided  to  take  it  to  St.  Joseph  and 
leave  it  in  a  bank,  which  I  did  the  evening  before  the  rob- 
bery, or  I  think  it  would  have  gone  like  the  neighbors' 
did.  I  always  did  believe  our  own  militia  got  that  money, 
and  to  save  themselves  laid  the  robbery  on  Pawley's, 
who  were  scared  too  bad  at  that  time  to  stay  at  home, 
much  less  rob  their  neighbors.  My  reason  for  believing 
some  bad  men  at  Cameron  got  that  money  is,  I  told  it 
publicly  that  I  was  going  to  leave  my  money  in  a  St. 
Joseph  bank,  hence,  they  did  not  stop  at  my  place. 


CHAPTER  79. 


CARRYING  THE  MAILS  68  YEARS  AGO. 

In  another  chapter  I  have  mentioned  the  first  post 
office  in  the  present  limits  of  Shoal  Township  which 
was  named  Beehive.  About  the  year  1843  or  44 — a  post 
route  was  established  between  Richmond  in  Ray  County 
via  the  old  Elkhorn  and  a  few  cross  road  post  offices 
along  the  route  to  Athens  in  Gentry  county,  at  that  time 
a  Border  county. 

A  contract  for  carrying  the  mails  one  trip  a  week 
between  these  points  was  let.  This  route  took  in  the 
embryo  townships  of  Maysville  and  Gentryville  and  the 
Mount  Refuge  office.  The  contractor  was  one  Adolphus 
Baldwin,  son  of  the  postmaster  at  Mount  Refuge,  the 
pioneer  Isaac  D.  Baldwin,  with  Willim  S.  Williams, 
"Uncle  Bill" — a  son-in-law  as  assistant  carrier.  So 
Baldwin  got  a  carpenter  to  make  of  walnut  lumber  a 
primitive  postbox  to  contain  the  mail  in  one  room  of 
his  double  log  house,  with  one  door  and  strong  black- 
smith made  hasp  and  staple  for  padlock  to  keep  any  of 
his  sixteen  children  with  meddlesome  propensities  on 
the  outside  of   this  sanctum   sanctorium.     Every   thing 

196 


SEVENTY-FIVE   YEARS   ON   THE   BORDER 

being  ready,  the  mail  carrier  started.  However,  he  was 
not  escorted  with  a  brass  band  as  was  the  rural  carrier 
on  Route  1,  fifty-five  years  later,  who  passed  the  old 
post  office  site  and  over  at  least  ten  miles  of  this  old 
route  traversed  by  that  ancient  mail  route  from  Rich- 
mond to  Athens. 

This  Dolphus  Baldwin  carrier  was  more  of  a  sine- 
cure than  a  real  mail  carrier,  so  when  the  real  pinch  of 
bitter  cold  weather  came,  Uncle  Bill  had  to  take  the  old 
mule  and  Uncle  Sams'  mail  bags  and  carry  them  through 
trackless  wastes  of  prairie  and  woodlands,  at  that  time 
the  woodlands  predominating. 

On  one  occasion  he  told  me  many  years  after,  he 
and  the  old  mule  had  floundered  along  through  deep 
snow  drifts  over  the  trackless  prairie  south  and  north  of 
where  Osborn  now  is,  finally  about  night  striking  the 
timbered  country  on  Lost  Creek  south  of  Maysville, 
losing  the  road  in  the  woods.  The  mule  tired  out  carry- 
ing a  heavy  man  and  two  weeks  mail,  falling  into  gulleys 
and  ditches  covered  with  snow,  so  they  were  completely 
lost  on  a  terribly  cold  night.  Uncle  Bill  said  he  stopped 
to  consider,  looking  anxiously  for  a  light,  listening  for 
noise  of  any  living  thing,  and  nearly  freezing  besides. 
Finally  he  heard  a  faint  sound  of  a  cow  bell  in  a  low 
sheltered  bottom  up  the  creek.  Going  up,  he  found  some 
cows.  So  he  commenced  hallooing,  calling  dogs  and 
yelling,  scaring  the  cows  who  run  for  home  to  their 
calves,  Williams  and  the  mule  following  them  to  the 
cabin  of  the  settler,  finding  a  cordial  warm  reception. 


CHAPTER  80. 


A  PECULIAR  FAMILY. 


The  McCartneys. 

I  am  justified  in  devoting  more  space  in  this  little 
work  to  this  peculiar  family  than  any  other  of  my  early 

197 


SEVENTY-FIVE   YEARS   ON    THE    BORDER 

acquaintance.  I  was  better  acquainted  with  them  than 
I  was  with  many  other  of  my  neighbors,  as  our  post 
office  was  kept  at  their  farm.  They  also  kept  a  fine 
nursery  of  all  kinds  of  fruit  and  shrubbery,  and  at  that 
time  I  was  an  enthusiast  for  fruits,  which  has  followed 
me  all  through  my  business  career,  as  the  older  citizens 
will  attest. 

One  peculiarity  of  this  family  was,  that  they  all  (for 
many  years)  hung  together  like  a  community  of  Shakers. 
They  seemed  to  be  in  love  with  one  another,  and  what 
was  one's  interest  was  all  the  others',  and  they  got  along 
together  like  a  hive  of  working  bees  with  no  drones  to 
dispose  of;  they  had  no  places  for  drones  as  bees  have. 

Being  so  well  acquainted  with  this  good  family  of 
bachelors  and  maidens,  as  their  place  was  a  social  cen- 
ter, so  to  speak,  as  well  as  business  center  in  the  days 
before  Cameron  sprung  up  (a  good  many  years  ago), 
till,  finally,  the  great  war  came  sundering  all  those  social 
ties,  so  delightful,  (as  well  as  tinged  with  pathos)  to 
contemplate  by  the  very  few  of  us  now  left. 

There  were,  when  I  first  knew  them  sixty-three 
years  ago,  beside  their  mother,  six  boys,  John  P.,  Hiram 
A.,  Asher  William,  J.  R.  (Doc.)  and  Gratton,  who  have 
all  passed  away.  The  girls'  names  were,  Rebecca,  (Mrs. 
James  Steele,  mother  of  Judge  Ed.  Steele,  who  is  yet 
living  with  the  Judge  more  than  eighty-two  years  of  age.) 
Mary,  first  wife  of  Major  Plumb,  the  old  veteran  of  Civil 
War  memory,  mother  of  William  Plumb,  who  inherited 
part  of  the  old  McCartney  home;  Sallie,  who  married 
David  Reed,  one  of  my  old  time  acquaintances,  a  good 
many  years  before  war  time — both  are  now  dead  these 
many  years.  I  yet  have  some  snow  balls  on  my  front 
lawn  given  me  by  this  good  woman  fifty-five  or  more 
years  ago.  All  the  McCartney  girls  were  enthusiastic 
lovers  of  flowers.  The  fact  is,  I  admired  flowers  then, 
as  well  as  the  girls  that  fostered  them,  and  do  yet,  for 
that  matter. 

The  next  is  Marguerite  "Jane"  who,  for  many  years, 
acted  as   matron  for  the  family,  but  finally   married  a 

ni 


SEVENTY-FIVE   YEARS   ON    THE    BORDER 

gentleman  whose  name  was  Barnett,  an 

official  of  Daviess  County.  She  is  yet  living  in  Gallatin 
at  the  ripe  age  of  seventy-four  years.  If  I  had  language 
at  my  command  to  record  all  the  good  things  I  know  of 
her,  I  believe  it  would  bring  the  old  time  scarlet  blush 
to  her  cheek.  However,  ic  is  sufficient  to  say  that  she 
"Remembered  her  Creator  in  the  days  of  her  youth," 
and  He  hath  not  forgotten  her  in  age. 

Harriet  McCartney,  the  youngest  of  this  family  of 
ancient  Virginia  lineage.  There  is  a  melancholy  pathos 
surrounding  the  early  life  of  this  beautiful,  vivacious, 
lovely  girl  too  sacred  to  be  unveiled.  She  married  a 
gentleman  standing  high  in  social  and  business  circles, 
— (as  I've  been  told),  and  lived  but  a  few  years,  leaving 
two  children,  daughters,  I  believe. 

When  dim,  receding  memory  of  this  bright,  good, 
womanly  girl  brings  her  to  mind,  somehow  the  pathetic 
lines  of  Grey's  Elegy  are  always  present: 

"Full  many  a  flower  is  born  to  blow  and  blush   unseen 
And  waste  its  sweetness  on  the  desert  air." 

"I  never  had  a  dear  gazelle, 

With  a  mild  blue  eye, 

But  when  it  came  to  know  and  love  me  well, 

'Twas  sure  to  pine  away  and  die." 

But  her  old  time  friends  have  the  consolation  that 
her  beautiful  disembodied  spirit  has  winged  its  flight  to 
that  better  land  so  well  described  by  Felicia  Heman  In 
these  beautiful  lines: 

"Eye  hath  not  seen  it,  my  gentle  boy, 
Ear  hath  not  heard  its  songs  of  joy, 
Dreams  cannot  picture  a  world  so  fair, 
Sorrow  and  Death  may  not  enter  there; 
Time  doth  not  mar  its  fadeless  bloom, 
Far  above  the  clouds  and  beyond  the  tomb." 

Some  years  since  I  was  visiting  my  sister,  Mrs. 
Sallie  A.  Hockensmith,  and  she  and  I,  in  looking 
through  an  old  family  book,  noticed  the  faded  fringe  of 
a  ribbon  marker.     On  opening  the  book  there  was  a  re- 

199 


SEVENTY-FIVE    YEARS    ON    THE    BORDER 

minder  of  other  days.  Beautifully  lettered  on  perfor- 
ated card  board  was  the  motto, — "Friendship's  offering. 
Hattie."  While  silently  contemplating  the  little  gift  of 
girlhood  days,  I  noticed  the  silent  tear  in  Sister's  eyes 
and  in  my  own.  I  felt  a  film  pass  over  them  obscuring, 
for  the  time,  my  vision.  We  turned  away  without  say- 
ing a  word.  There  are  times  when  feeling  is  too  intense 
for  words. 

I  am  glad  now  (it  is  nearly  fifty  years  since  I  saw 
her  last)  to  pay  this  tribute  to  her  memory. 

A  melancholy  pathos  surrounds  the  memory  of  this 
good  family. 

There  is  now  not  one  male  descendant  left  bearing 
the  family  name,  but  one  of  the  brothers  ever  marrying 
and  he  left  no  children.  "Of  all  sad  words  of  tongue  or 
pen,  the  saddest  are  these,  It  might  have  been." 

Midway  Place,  December,  1911. 


CHAPTER  81, 


JOHN  T.  JONES. 

Mr.  John  T.  Jones  came  to  Missouri  from  Ohio 
about  the  year  1852,  stopping  near  Mirabile.  A  year  or 
two  before  I  knew  much  about  him,  he  bought  a  fine 
tract  of  timber  at  the  mouth  of  Brushy  Creek,  the  old 
Bozarth,  Durbin  mill  tract,  at  that  time  the  best  timber 
on  Shoal  Creek  in  Clinton  County.  He  also  bought  out 
the  farm  and  improvements  of  David  O'Donnell,  adjoin- 
ing this  timbered  tract,  beside  several  other  tracts  and 
farms.  He  was  considered  quite  wealthy  for  that  time. 
Mrs.  Jones  was  a  sister  of  Governor  George  Smith,  of 
Caldwell  County,  who  came  to  Missouri  several  years 
before  Mr.  Jones  did.  Uncle  John,  as  nearly  all  of  his 
neighbors  called  him,  was  a  first  class  man  and  a  mighty 
good  friend  of  mine,  when  I  needed  friends;  however, 
we  always  need  friends. 

He  was  father  of  Captain  Isaiah  Jones,   who  was 

JOO 


SEVENTY-FIVE   YEARS   ON    THE   BORDER 

my  partner  in  the  live  stock  and  grain  business  for  a 
considerable  time  during  the  war.  He  was  also  Mrs. 
Hiram  Gorrell's  and  Thomas  P.  Jones'  father.  Thomas 
P.  now  owns  his  old  homestead  containing  nearly  1000 
acres.  I  have  known  four  generations  of  this  good  Jones 
family.  They  are  very  prosperous,  energetic,  good  citi- 
zens and  church  members,  nearly  all  of  them.  Mr. 
Arthur  Johnson  and  sisters  are  grandchildren  of  John 
T.  Jones.  I  was  well  acquainted  with  Mr.  Frank  John- 
son, Arthur's  father,  as  well  as  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Hiram 
Gorrell,  my  near  neighbors  and  good  friends  for  nearly 
fifty  years.  Mr.  John  Gorrell  owns  one  of  the  finest 
farms  near  Cameron,  containing  320  acres.  Twenty-five 
years  ago  he  was  hiring  by  the  month.  Everett  and 
Wilson  and  John  Parry  own  the  largest  clothing  estab- 
lishment in  Cameron,  the  first  two  being  sons  of  Mr. 
Gorrell,  and  Mr.  Parry  a  son-in-law.  I've  never  had 
better  friends  than  the  Jones  and  Gorrells. 

Mr.  John  T.  Jones  has  been  dead  more  than  30 
years,  and  Mr.  Hiram  Gorrell  about  five  years.  Mr. 
Hiram  Gorrell  was  fifer  in  our  company  of  militia  in  war 
time,  and  the  best  one  I  ever  heard ;  was  also  a  fine  sing- 
er and  natural  musician.  His  death  made  a  sad  impres- 
sion on  all  of  his  many  friends.  He  will  be  remembered 
and  missed  by  those  who  knew  him  best  to  the  end  of 
their  lives. 


CHAPTER  82. 


FRED  WOLFERMAN. 

Mr.  Fred  Wolferman,  the  Walnut  Street  "Good 
Things  to  Eat"  grocer  of  Kansas  City,  has  one  of  the 
finest  establishments  of  the  kind  I've  ever  seen;  I  think 
a  long  shot  the  best  in  Kansas  City. 

I  am  fairly  well  acquainted  with  Mr.  Fred  and  his 
father,  and  have  found  no  nicer  or  more  prompt  and  re- 
liable gentlemen  in  Kansas  City  with  whom  to  do  busi- 

201 


SEVENTY-FIVE   YEARS    ON    THE    BORDER 

ncss.     Mr.  Fred  is  the  owner  of  Lonesomehurst  Park, 
which  I  sold  to  him  some  years  since. 

Lonesomehurst  could  be  improved  and  made  one  of 
the  most  picturesque  country  residences  south  of  the 
great  city.  No  better  neighbors  anywhere.  I  have  a 
warm  place  in  my  heart  for  Lonesomehurst  and  its  sur- 
roundings. 


LONESOMEHURST  PARK. 

If  you  are  in  a  seeing  mood 

Look  at    scenery  that  will  do  you  good 

Out  by  the  big  Chicken   Ranch 

One  mile  south  on  Dykes  Branch. 

Look  east  from  the  bridge 

And  you'll  see  first 

The  park  we  call  "Lonesomehurst." 

If  you  would  further  beauties  seek 

Follow  down  the  little  creek 

Midst  gnarled  trees  and  sylvan  shades, 

Hanging  vines  and  colonades. 

Go  on  down  just  to  the  gorge 

When  you  are  there  you'll  thing  I  gerge 

What  a  good  thing 

Is  this  great  living  spring. 

If  you  would  pure  ozone  sniff 

Then  clamber  up  the  rugged  cliff 

From  this  giddy  height  you'll  say,  I  ween, 

A  prettier  sight  is  seldom  seen. 

The  creeks  below  a  silver  sheen, 

The  park  beyond  in  living  green, 

If  'twas  winter,  you  would  think, 

This  man  owns  a  skating  rink, 

If  in  summer,  you  would  wish, 

For  a  pole  and  hook,  to  catch  some  fish. 

When  nimble  squirrels  dart  in  and  out, 
And  bright  hued  birds  are  all  about 
'Tis  spring-time  then  without  a  doubt, 
With  trees,  and  shrubs,  always  in  bloom 
And  every  breeze  wafting  sweet  perfume 
We'd  want  to  live  till  day  of  doom. 
The  house  up  on  hill  top  ground, 
With  natural   drive  all  way  round, 
A  prettier   Site   cannot  be  found. 
Big  trees  left  standing  in  park  and  lawn 
Bring  fresh  to  mind  great  forests  gone 
And  admonish  us  how  time  has  flown. 

m 


SEVENTY-FIVE   YEARS   ON    THE   BORDER 


I've  told  this  tale  to  you  in  verse, 

No  need  just  now  to  more  rehearse. 

They  could  be  better, 

They  might  be  worse. 

Be  that  as  it  may, 

Permit  me  to  say, 

They  are  such  as  we  have, 

At  "Lonesomehurst." 

April  21st,  1908  James  Williams. 


CHAPTER  83. 


GEORGE  WHITE. 

George  White  was  a  very  early  settler  in  Clinton 
County  on  the  head  waters  of  Crooked  River,  near  the 
Brookin  School  House.  He  was  a  saddle  and  harness 
maker  as  well  as  farmer.  He  made  the  saddle  that  my 
father  rode  on  those  long  lonely  preaching  trips,  and 
like  my  father,  adhered  to  the  principles  as  exemplified 
by  the  early  exponent  of  the  Baptist  faith,  which  he 
clung  to  as  long  as  the  writer  knew  him.  One  had  to 
be  an  awful  dyspeptic  to  not  enjoy  his  good  humored 
sallies  of  wit.  I  remember  being  with  him  and  some 
other  stockmen  in  Chicago  in  war  time.  We  were  walk- 
ing along  a  down  town  street  passing  a  great  (for  that 
time)  big  building.  Pointing  to  it,  he  said,  "Gentlemen, 
that  building  reminds  me  of  my  residence  out  on  Shoal 
Creek  in  Missouri,  only  my  house  has  a  lean-to  shed 
kitchen."  It  was  not  so  much  what  he  said  but  the  way 
he  said  it  and  how  he  looked.  Brother  White's  home  was 
headquarters  for  Baptist  preachers  in  early  days.  On  one 
occasion  he  invited  my  father  and  a  back-woods  early 
day  noisy  exhorter  home  with  him.  White  was  so  full 
of  his  fun  and  mischief  (he  didn't  have  much  use  for  the 
noisy  tobacco  juice  spitter)  so  he  got  to  telling  stories 
how  his  wife's  chickens  would  fly  and  scamper  off  in  the 
brush  (he  lived  in  the  edge  of  the  woods)  when  they 
saw  a  preacher  ride  up  to  the  stile  and  throw  his  bridle 
rein  over  a  fence  stake.  My  father  said  Bro.  "Tom" 
didn't  like  it  a  bit  but  had  to  grin  and  bear  it.    Sister 

203 


SEVENTY-FIVE   YEARS   ON    THE    BORDER 

White  came  to  Bro.  Tom's  rescue,  saying  George  must 
have  his  fun.  I  think  he  sold  goods  quite  a  while  in  old 
Haynesville,  but  moved  about  the  beginning  of  the  war 
to  a  farm  about  four  miles  south  of  my  home,  and  handled 
quite  a  lot  of  all  kinds  of  stock  during  the  civil  war.  At 
the  end  of  the  war  he  moved  to  Atchison,  Kansas,  and  en- 
gaged in  the  Salt  Lake  overland  trade  (as  I  have  heard) 
for  several  years.  Living  to  a  very  great  age,  retaining 
(his  son,  Church,  writes  me)  his  general  good  humor 
to  the  end.  I  can't  refrain  in  this  connection  from  tell- 
ing a  funny  little  incident  joke  on  his  daughter  Mollie 
and  her  brother  Church.  It  occurred  the  morning  they 
were  getting  their  household  and  kitchen  furniture  out 
in  the  front  yard  preparatory  to  being  loaded  on  wagons 
to  be  hauled  to  Cameron  for  shipment  to  Atchison. 

They  had  had  a  family  of  negro  freedmen  living 
with  them;  the  woman  doing  the  cooking,  her  husband, 
"Ely,"  helping  the  men.  This  family  of  freedmen  had 
formerly  belonged  to  Mr.  Croyesdale's  wife  (nee  Skin- 
ner) and  came  and  worked  for  the  writer  quite  a  while 
after  the  White  family  moved  to  Atchison. 

It  seemed  that  Church  didn't  think  his  sister  Mollie 
was  quite  as  familiar  with  that  cooking  stove  as  she 
probably  would  be  later  on.  They  were  both  out  in  the 
yard  where  the  goods  and  stove  were  being  gotten  ready 
for  the  wagons.  Whereupon,  Church  grabbed  his  sister's 
hand  turning  her  around,  suddenly  saying,  "Miss  White, 
this  very  important  article  of  kitchen  furniture  is  a  cook- 
ing stove.  Miss  White,  you  are  going  to  a  state  where 
a  nigger  is  a  colored  person.  You  and  this  stove,  Miss 
White,  will  in  all  probability  become  a  great  deal  better 
acquainted  than  you  have  been  heretofore."  I  was  pres- 
ent, and  never  will  forget  how  funny  Mollie  looked,  but 
Church  did  not  even  smile  but  looked  about  as  funny  as 
did  his  sister  Mollie.  Church  writes  me,  he  and  Mollie 
are  still  living  in  Atchison,  though  growing  old.  They 
are  niece  and  nephew  to  the  late  Church  White  who  died 
•everal  years  since  in  Kansas  City,  and  are  cousins  of 
the  big  lumber  magnate,  R.  A.  Long,  owner  of  the  sky- 

HM 


SEVENTY-FIVE   YEARS   ON    THE    BORDER 

scraper  building  at  10th  Street  and  Grand  Avenue,  Kan- 
sas City,  Mo. 

There  were  no  nicer  young  people  than  Church  and 
Mollie  White  when  they  lived  here  47  years  ago. 


I  can  think  of  no  more  appropriate  farewell  to  my 
readers  and  long  ago  friends  than  a  poem  published  near- 
ly one  hundred  years  ago  in  a  little  book  entitled,  "Songs 
of  Our  Grandmothers,"  recounting  the  many  valiant 
deeds  of  our  forefathers  of  the  Revolution,  and  War  of 
1812.  This  pathetically  tragic  incident  made  an  impres- 
sion on  my  young  mind  that  sixty  years  have  not  entire- 
ly effaced. 

Some  twenty  years  ago  an  article  appeared  in  the 
papers  of  Northern  Ohio,  and  was  largely  copied  by 
papers  of  the  West,  giving  an  account  of  the  death  of  a 
very  old  maiden  lady,  who  was  the  heroine  of  the  sad 
tragedy  recounted  by  the  poet,  whose  name  I  do  not  re- 
member, if  I  ever  knew  it.  I  can  only  (not  having  the 
little  book  long  since  lost  sight  of)  give  the  poem  from 
memory,  which  will  give  the  thoughts  of  the  poet,  if  not 
his  exact  words.    It  is  as  follows : 

"Sons  of  Freedom,  listen  to  me, 
And  ye  daughters,  too,  give  ear; 
You,  a  sad  and  mournful  story 
As  was  ever  told,  shall  hear. 

Hull,  you  know,  his  troops  surrendered 
And,  defenseless,  left  the  west; 
Then  our  forces  quick  assembled, 
The  invader  to  resist. 

'Mongst  the  troops  that  marched  to  Erie 
Were  the  Kingston  volunteers; 
Captain  Thomas  them  commanded, 
To  protect  our  west  frontiers. 

But  there's  one  among  the  number, 
Tall  and  graceful  is  his  mien, 
Firm  his  step,  his  look  undaunted, 
Scarce  a  nobler  youth  was  seen. 

205 


SEVENTY-FIVE   YEARS    ON    THE    BORDER 


Tender  were  the  scenes  of  parting, 
Mothers  wrung  their  hands  and  cried; 
Maidens  wept  their  swains  in  secret, 
Fathers  throve  their  hearts  to  hide. 

One  sweet  kiss,  he  snatched  from  Mary, 
Craved   his  mother's  prayer   once   more, 
Pressed    his    father's    hand    and    left    them 
For  Lake  Erie's  distant  shore. 

(The  two  lines  that  should  be  here  are 
forgotten   by   the  writer). 
Goodbye,   Bird,   may   Heaven  protect  you 
From  the  rest  at  parting  broke. 

Soon  they  came  where  noble  Perry, 
Had  assembled  all  his  fleet, 
Out  upon  the  broad  Lake  Erie, 
Hoping  soon  the  foe  to  meet. 

Where  is  Bird,  the  battle  rages; 
Is  he  in  the  strife  or  no; 
Now  the   cannons   roar  tremendeous 
Dare  he  meet  the  hostile  foe. 

Ah,  behold  him,  see  him  Perry 
In  the  self  same  ship  they  fight 
And  his  messmates  fall  around  him. 
Nothing   can  his   soul   affright; 

But,  behold,  a  ball  has  struck  him, 
See   the   crimson   current   flow; 
'Leave  the   deck!'   exclaimed  brave   Perry, 
'No,'  cried  Bird,  'I  will  not  go.' 

Still  he  fought,  though  faint  and  bleeding, 
Till  the  Stars  and  Stripes  arose 
Victory  having  crowned  our  efforts; 
All  triumphant  o'er  our  foes. 

And   did  Bird   receive   a  pension? 
Was  he  to  his  friends  restored? 
No!  nor  never  to  his  bosom 
Clasped  the  maid  his  heart  adored. 

'Dearest,   Mother,'  said  the  letter, 
'Tis  the  last  you'll  have  from  me; 
I  must  suffer  for  deserting 
From  the  Brig  Niagara.' 

Sad  and  gloomy  was  the  morning 
Bird  was  ordered  out  to  die; 
Where's  the  heart  not  dead  to  pity, 
But   for   him   would   heave   a  sigh. 

HI 


SEVENTY-FIVE   YEARS   ON   THE   BORDER 


See,  he  rides  upon  his  coffin 
With  his  head  in  shrouded  hood; 
Let  his  courage  plead  for  mercy, 
Sure  his  death  will  do  no  good 

Hark,   hark!    Oh,   God,   they've   shot   him! 
Farewell,  Bird,  farewell  for  ever; 
Friends  and  home  hell  see  no  more, 
For  his  mangled  corpse  lies  buried 
On  Lake  Erie's  distant  shore." 


FINIS. 


207 


INDEX. 


Chapter  Pate 

Preface  2 

1  My  Parentage      3 

2  Autobiography      of     James 

Williams 4 

3  My   First   Love   Affair 7 

4  A  War  Time  Love  Affair . .  9 

5  My  Marriage 13 

6  My  Two  Sisters    14 

7  An  Indian  Story 16 

8  First  Commercial  Venture.  19 

9  A  'Possum  Hunt  Sixty-two 

Years  Ago 21 

10  Hemp  and  Bacon  Going  to 

Market 22 

11  How   Dave    Kirpatrick    and 

Zeke  Duncan  Beat  Some 
Three-Card   Monte   Men.   24 

12  J.   Q.  A.  Kemper 29 

13  Colonel  A.  W.  Doniphan..   30 

14  Funny  War  Time  Incident.  32 

15  Clinton      County's      Heavy 

Court 34 

16  How   a    Lynx    Looks 36 

17  St.  Joseph  Plow  Factories.  .  40 

18  O.   H.   P.   Newberry 43 

19  Price  Harlan  .      45 

20  Going  to   Mill   Sixty-Three 

Years  Ago 47 

21  The  Early  Day  Hard  Shell 

Baptist  Preacher 52 

22  Shipping    Stock    Fifty-Two 

Years  Ago 55 

23  Why    and    How    Cameron 

Got  the  Name  it  Bears . .   57 

24  A  Tribute  to  D.  Ward  King 

of  Maitland,  Mo 58 

25  Peddling    Chickens    to    Ft. 

Leavenworth  Years  Ago.   59 

26  The    Old   Shawnee  Mission  63 

27  Some  Unwritten   History..   65 

28  Shipping  Salt  Cameron,  Mo., 

to  Winterset,  Iowa    69 

29  Rural   Route   No.   1,   Came- 

ron. Missouri 73 

30  My  First  Trip  to  Cameron 

—Colonel  M.  F.  Tiernan     76 

31  Kansas  City's  Big  Drunk.  . .   78 

32  B.   F.   Davis 80 

33  First  Impressions 81 

34  Canning  Fruits,  Meats,  Etc.  82 

35  William    E.    Croysdale 84 

36  The  Tragic  Death  of  W.  B. 

La  Force  .  .       87 

37  Ernest  Kellerstrass 88 

38  Morgan  Boone 89 

39  Some   Things   I've   Seen  in 

Theatres    and    Shows 89 

40  Topographical  Survey— 1846  92 

41  Isaac  D.  Baldwin,  The  Pio- 

neer    Settler     of     Shoal 
Township,  Clinton  County  94 


Chapter  Pate 

42  Hiram  Stephenson 96 

43  An  Experience  with  Wolves 

65  Years  Ago 98 

44  Blooded  Cattle 101 

45  How  Near  I  Came  to  Being 

Killed  bv   Falling  Trees.  102 

46  The    Old    Fashioned    Spell- 

ing School  105 

47  Dreams 114 

48  An  Allegory 117 

49  Some    Panther    Stories. ...  123 

50  An   Inventor 126 

51  Missouri   Products 127 

52  A  Trip  to  Lawrence,  1860.   131 

53  The  Tragic  Ending  of  Four 

of  The  Beatty  Family...  138 

54  Catching     Wolves     in     an 

Early   Day 140 

55  Far  West  70  Years  Ago...  142 

56  Charles  E.  Packard 144 

57  Our  German  Neighbors  .    .145 

58  Going  Across  the  Plains  in 

Early  Days  .   146 

59  What    Awful    Liars    Some 

People  Are 150 

60  The    Potter    Families 152 

61  Reminiscent  of  the  Past...  154 

62  Dave  O'Donnell 158 

63  A    Trip   on    the    Steamboat 

"Morning  Star" 160 

64  Hiram  A.  McCartney .162 

65  A    War     Time     Dance     at 

Mike  Moore's  Five  Miles 
North  of   Cameron    165 

66  John   P.   McCartney    169 

67  Joseph  Charless    171 

68  John   R.   Miner    173 

69  The  James  Boys*  Father..  174 

70  Tragic    Death    of    William 

Adams 178 

71  How  We   Caught   Quail...  179 

Quails 179 

72  My  Experience  in  Promot- 
ing Electric    Railways    180 

73  The   Breckenridges    182 

74  Why   the    Pioneers   Settled 

Along  the  Creeks  183 

75  Captain  John  Turney 184 

76  The  Early  Public    Men    of 

Clinton    County    188 

77  Marketing        Pork        Sixty 

Years  Ago 189 

78  My  Memory  of  the  Killing 

of  James  Pawley  and  One 
of  the  Nicholson  Broth- 
ers   192 

79  Carrying  the  Mails  68  Years 

Ago 196 

80  A  Peculiar  Family   197 

81  John  T.  Jones 200 

82  Fred  Wolferman 201 

83  George  White   203 


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